


A Little Deducing Merman

by shychouette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, The Little Mermaid - All Media Types
Genre: Aged-Down Character, Crossover, Disney, Disney crossover, Gender or Sex Swap, M/M, mention of parental death, mentions of abuse, mentions of alcholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-05 20:28:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 34,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shychouette/pseuds/shychouette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It was a military portrait, with John in a uniform. It seemed like John had tried to look stately, but a bit of a smirk had gotten through the hard expression he had tried to assume. There were medals decorating his breast as well as a single star above them. From Sherlock's research on various militaries, that usually meant a very high rank. Of course Sherlock already knew John was a prince, but John seemed to be a prince of action. Sherlock liked that. To him it even seemed a bit attractive.</p>
<p>Sherlock was surprised at this feeling. He had never felt any attraction to any merpeople or the like. No one ever seemed to amount to his intellect. In their ignorance, they would just brush him off as a freak that was too observant. How could the detective ever find such foolishness attractive?</p>
<p>John, though, had said he was brilliant."</p>
<p>Crossover between A Little Mermaid and Sherlock Holmes (BBC) because why not?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bored and Parties are Idiotic

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies if the writing style changes a tad during this fic. I've had this fic in the works for almost half a year, so some parts have been done a while ago, and others I've just written. I'll do my best to try and keep the style similar. Also apologies for all the titles, because those things are hard and my creativity doesn't spill over into them //dies

                "Come on, Sherlock, we're going to be late!"

                The aforementioned merman let out an exasperated sigh, feeling the water being forced out of his throat. Unlike humans, there was a lack of bubbles to accompany and accentuate this sigh. Breathing underwater didn't give such a luxury. Sherlock had little care for such things, but what did interest him was the anatomy that made such a feat as breathing underwater possible.

                His lungs functioned in a completely different manner from the creatures walking above. As his lungs took in air, his red blood circulated under the protective membrane inside the inner cavity of the lung, the cells would gorge on the oxygen from the water, but the water would not harm the parts of the organ that could filter the air. This allowed for some surfacing above water, but not for long periods of time, which--

                "SHERLOCK!"

                Sherlock was ripped from his ponderings of his species by the screams of Molly.

                "Poseidon’s sake, I'm coming," Sherlock said, retrieving one last item from the ship wreck. He'd procured many valuables from this wreck; he would definitely add them to his collection in the grotto. It had become a bit of a hobby to collect specimens from wrecks to distract Sherlock from his never-ending boredom between cases (and there was _definitely_ boredom).These samples were far more important to him than something Mycroft was putting on. What was it again? A ball for someone's birthday? Anniversary? Sherlock had deleted the information long ago.

                Molly swam into his face. "Sherlock, we have to high-tail it now or we're both chum!" Her petite fish body squirmed as she swam around in panic. She was just a silver convict tang, and a pale one at that. Her black stripes contorted as she swam in circles, emphasizing her agitation. Based on  her scales high luster and that she was lacking her usual paranoid sensitivity, the detective confirmed she must have some sort of rendezvous to attend. Why she tagged along with him if she had something so "important" to get to, he had no idea. Sherlock wasn't exactly sharp in that category and he didn't plan on being so any time soon.

                "Let's go!" Molly yelled again. This time, though, she sprinted off in the direction that lead to Atlantica. Hastily, the merman threw his samples into his bag. Shoulder bags weren't common for mermen, but Sherlock couldn't give a damn. It was small. It kept all his things. It was convenient. No other arguments needed.

                He followed Molly to the coral reef that lead to the entrance to the kingdom. Sherlock could already hear the music of the party, reminding him of the numerous social interactions he would have to endure. Being a prince of the kingdom meant having to greet every single guest of the occasion. How Sherlock loathed these get-togethers. He barely had any interaction with Lestrade or Mycroft, and he actually knew them. Not that he ever actually wanted to engage in such interaction, especially with Mycroft, but, alas, sometimes it was unavoidable.

                He sighed again and entered into the borders of Atlantica.

~~~~~~

                Only a half an hour into the party and Sherlock was already, as expected, bored. The event was apparently the anniversary of some government official that was close to his father and he had managed to greet most of the guests. His father, recently passed, seemed to have to have too many acquaintances. These soirees occurred too often for Sherlock's liking and he didn't really see the need for such things. Not to mention his passing meant more duties for the merman to carry out. He would never want to be king. Too many events to attend, too many ambiguous citizens to shake hands with, too many concerns he thought were just useless clutter inside a mind that could be used for much greater endeavors. Though, to his utter dismay, he still had responsibilities as prince and heir.

                Mycroft seemed to be enjoying himself, at least to everyone else in the room. The new king was just as bored as he was, though he was making more of an effort to look interested than Sherlock. Appearances always were a top priority for Mycroft. Being the new ruler of Atlantica made such concerns grow in importance. Sherlock watched as his brother conversed with an older merwoman. With his usual political smile he seemed to be enraptured in the discussion. The bored price would do the same, but there were no cases to be had, no data to collect, no profit in such tedious interaction. So he just sat on his small throne and assumed his usual position of boredom. He looked on at the dull gathering, watching merpeople laugh and smile, having fun. If the detective didn't possess a superior intellect, he might be doing the same. Except his idea of fun was a new cadaver, not drinks with companions.

                "I see you're not exactly having the best time, dear."

                Sherlock glanced to the right to see Mrs. Hudson on the arm rest.

                She was a quite caring for a crab. She was supposed to be some spy for Mycroft to keep an eye on Sherlock, but she was really more of an enabler for his antics.

                "It was highly improbable that I would be," Sherlock replied, shifting his head to rest on his left arm instead of his right in order to give Mrs. Hudson more room.

                "To be honest with you, I'm not having a "bang-up" time myself," she said, giving a snap of her pinkish claw, "Whoever planned this party obviously doesn't know how to have a good time."

                "I assume you could do better?" the prince inquired.

                "Far better," Mrs. Hudson stated, snapping her claws again.  "Back when your father had birthday parties, now those were the days. I would get the band into a good swing and everyone would shake their tailfin."

                A little half-smile tickled Sherlock's face. At least Mrs. Hudson could provide him some sort of stimuli. If companions were vital to his existence, she would be his first choice.

                Suddenly Mrs. Hudson said, "Did you hear about the ship that's supposed to be above us tonight?"

Sherlock actually had received that information from Scuttle. He was one of the many gulls from the network he used to get information. Gulls can fly around as they please, but simultaneously be a usual aspect of the scenery-- the perfect spies. But for the sake of Mrs. Hudson and the conversation they were having, he replied with a no.

                "Well," Mrs. Hudson said, lowering her claws and leaning in like any other woman would when sharing gossip, "Supposedly it's some ship just back from some war on land. Poor creatures. Too many of those, if you ask me. Life under here is much more peaceful."

                The prince nodded in agreement. Altlanica rarely experienced conflict. There were some other clans of merpeople scattered across the seven seas, but each clan preferred to keep to themselves and no one had tried to prove otherwise. Sherlock found it a bit dull to not have a globalized society of merpeople, but he didn't have the power or the desire to make the effort to change things.

                "Any way," Mrs. Hudson said, her voice now a whisper, "What I'm worried about is the storm that's coming. Poor dears have to return home from bloodshed and be confronted by more bad luck. Darn shame, I'd say."

                This piqued Sherlock's interest. Storms usually produced some sort of wreckage. More wreckage meant more data. He wasn't hoping the humans would die, of course not. Even if he could bring a cadaver back to examine, he would never hope that they would die.

                "Go," Mrs. Hudson said.

                Sherlock looked back at her again, a bit surprised at her response. She glanced back at him.

                "You think you're the only one who can deduce, dear? I've been with you long enough to know what's going on in that little head of yours. You go; I'll cover for you somehow."

                Sherlock smiled again and gave her a nod of gratitude as he slipped out of his thrown and casually swam away.


	2. Above the Water and the Prince

                As soon as he was out of sight and retrieved his bag, Sherlock started swimming leagues at a time. Only this sort of excitement came with cases and finding new data; tonight it was the latter, and Sherlock was brimming with anticipation for new samples. He zipped up through the reefs, up into the open ocean before the surface and pumped his tail muscles as a last sprint to break the surface. He burst through the water and up into the open, drawing in a breath of salty air. He hastily glanced around, trying and find a higher vantage point. Spotting a half-submerged rock, he dove back into the water and swam towards it. As he vaulted himself onto the boulder, Sherlock searched for the ship.

                He could see the dark clouds gathering on the horizon. The moon was partially covered, giving an eerie feel to the rippling abyss of sea. Sherlock heard a drum of thunder in the distance; the storm was gathering power. The moon was uncovered for a moment as the wind blew the clouds away. There!

                Sherlock spotted the decrepit ship. Even from this distance, Sherlock could see the damage that pockmarked the boat. He was surprised it was even still sea-worthy. If compassion wasn't a weakness, Sherlock may have felt a twinge of sympathy. Although if they were maybe a bit smarter and more diplomatic, they wouldn't have such problems to begin with. Of course it was only from their stupidity that Sherlock was able to gather samples from the wreckage, so Sherlock was almost glad of their lack of intelligence. Almost.

                Sherlock fetched his spy-glass from his bag, probably the only considerate present Mycroft had ever gave him. To be completely honest, though, it was actually Mrs. Hudson's idea to give him such a gift, as Mycroft lacked the capacity to know what his brother would ever want for a gift.

                Sherlock looked through and focused on the deck of the ship. From the looks of things, it seemed as though there was a party going on. Obviously the humans didn't notice a storm that was slowly approaching behind them. How they could be that stupid, the detective had yet to discover. He saw someone fall off the side of the ship in his spy glass and from the looks of things no one was in a hurry to rescue him. The man resurfaced quickly and looked as though he was laughing and coughing at the same time. The crew members were also laughing and were leaning over the rail, almost falling off themselves. It was painstakingly obvious that they were intoxicated.

                Sherlock scanned the entire deck of the ship and all of the crew seemed to be anywhere from a bit tipsy to completely hammered. Except… one man still seemed to be aware. He was at the bow of the ship, looking over the side with what looked to be a tankard in his hand. Sherlock couldn't see his face, as he was turned away from Sherlock's view. Curious as usual, Sherlock dove back into the water to get a closer look.

~~~~~~

                Prince John Watson drained the rest of his tankard. The men had encouraged drinking till morning to celebrate the end of the battle. It was quite the gruesome one, but the war was mostly over. It had yet to be officially declared, but it was clear that John's country had won. The prince would have stayed for the formal signing of the treaty to end the war, but he had gotten injured and he was ordered back home. He knew he had gotten shot in the shoulder, but for some reason he had a bit of a limp now. His whole body was pretty banged up, though, so he just chalked it up as a minor injury that would recover eventually. 

                He set his glass down on the deck and looked out onto the sea. It was darker than usual, though it was somewhere in the wee hours of the morning; still the blackness was a bit unsettling. Peppering this darkness were the lights on the water from the ship. They moved with the waves, churning in synchronization with the water. 

                John was starting to regret those last few ales as he felt his stomach churn with nausea.

                "Highness? Highness!"

                John quickly turned around and immediately regretted the movement. He gripped his gut as he turned to see his butler, Michael, coming toward him relatively fast. Even though Michael was his butler, John considered the chubby fellow a dear friend of his. Michael had served John since his childhood and they had forged quite the bond.

                "Yes, what is it, Michael?" John said, trying to remain composed even though his stomach was doing flips inside him.

                "Highness," he gave a quick bow, "There seems to be a large thunderstorm heading our way. I'd advise that we act fast and get to the dock as quickly as possible."

                John had not noticed such a storm. He had almost blurted out, "What storm?" when a huge clap of thunder boomed, almost over their heads. John and Michael looked up to see dark clouds raging toward them.

                Then the rain started to pour.

                "Get the men to their stations!" commanded John, the gentle prince gone. Watson was now a war worn solider.

                "Aye, sir!" said Michael, jogging off to try and get the crew back in working order. John knew quite a few of the crew were down for the count, but he prayed there would be enough to get the ship going.

                "Quick, furl the sails!" John yelled, rushing to the aft of the boat to get to the helm. He needed to steer the boat away from anything they could be heading towards.

                "The wind's too strong!" yelled one of his crew members.

                "Damn it!" John cursed, grabbing hold of the wheel. Just then a huge wave crashed onto the boat. The crew was washed to one side, only to be saved by the wooden rail. Some almost went over, but clung to the rail for dear life. John saved himself by gripping the wheel with all his might.

                "Get to the life boats, now! GO, GO, GO!" John bellowed over the storm. The crew scrambled to get back on deck and cram into the lifeboats. Some of them had been lost to the wave, but luckily there were just enough to get the crew off. John was making his way toward one of the lifeboats as a bolt of lightning struck one of the main sails. It caught fire and started to blaze widely. John rushed toward the lifeboat and jumped in as it started to push off. John got settled into the boat and did a quick count of everyone. One member was missing.

                There were hysterical barks coming from the now flaming boat. John whipped his head back to find the one missing crew member. It was his bull dog, Gladstone. He probably had gotten caught up in the commotion and then left behind.

                "I have to go get him," John said, getting ready to dive back into the water.

                "You can't," Michael said, grabbing John's arm, "It's too risky for just a dog."

                "That, 'just a dog' is a loyal friend of mine and there is no way I am going to let him to die." John said firmly, shoving Sebastian's grip off. Before Sebastian could protest any further, John dove into the raging waves.

                The waves were icy cold, but John had little time to shiver. He resurfaced and started paddling back toward the ship. He climbed up one of the ladders on the side of the ship and managed to get on top of the deck. He quickly scanned the deck, trying to find his furry friend.

                 John ran in the direction the barks were coming from and spotted him. The dog was trapped on the elevated part of the deck. There was fire below him, trapping him in an inferno. The normally courageous bull dog was whining and trembling with fear.

                "You have to jump!" John said, trying to stay away from the fire that licked at his boots. Gladstone circled in worry. John could see that he was terrified, and after all Gladstone was never one for flames. "It's alright, I'll catch you," John said calmly. Now was not the time to panic.

                Reluctantly the dog looked down and then both ways. A part of mast crashed close to him, giving him the motivation to jump. John caught him and quickly ran starboard to where the lifeboat was still floating. He chucked his dog into the boat and he was caught by Michael. John was about to jump into the drink when there was an explosion from under him. The fire had gotten to the gunpowder below decks. John was knocked off balance and slid to port. The boat was now off-kilter and sinking. John tried to regain his footing, when another explosion ripped through the boat. John was flung aft and he crashed into the door to the cabin, knocking him unconscious. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's funny is that Gladstone used to be a cabin boy in the fire scene, but then when I was looking back at the scene in the movie, Eric rescues his dog, Max, and I realized I'd forgotten about Gladstone. I felt awful and put him in because he is just the sweetest dog quq


	3. The Catalyst Prince

                Sherlock had bared witness to these events from afar. He was treading water near the life boat, but not close enough to be seen. His brother was always warning him to never interfere with the humans, so he kept his distance at all times (despite desperately wanting samples.) The man, or "John" as his men seemed to call him, that had intrigued his curiosity had just risked his life to save a dog and now was in danger. A man this interesting could not be lost. Sherlock had to intervene.

                The explosions continued to destroy the boat, ripping it to pieces. He calculated the odds of John surviving and found they were slim, but that didn't mean he had no chance at all. Sherlock made quick time searching for the man among the wreckage.  He dove down deep to see if he had started to sink, and then would resurface again to see if he was drifting on a piece of wreckage. Sherlock continued doing this until his lungs burned from switching from water to air in such quick succession. The merman heaved in breaths above surface, still trying to find the prince.

                He heard a cough off in the distance.

                He whipped his head around to find John half on a piece of wreckage, and he was slipping.

                Sherlock had to act fast; he quickly dove again and darted toward John. He had already slipped off the piece of wood and was sinking slowly into the depths of the sea. Sherlock dove down and caught him. Bubbles drifted from John's mouth, reminding the merman he was losing time. With the same speed as before, he pumped his tail muscles as fast as he was able. Finally he broke the surface. There was no reaction from John, and that was not a good sign. He quickly swam toward the nearest shore and placed him on the sand.

                Sherlock hauled himself onto the shore with the strength he had left. Despite his weakness, the detective needed to administer aid. He crawled over to John’s seemingly lifeless body, tail dragging in the wet sand. Assuming John's heart was located in the same place as his, Sherlock put his ear to the man's chest. He heard nothing. John wasn't breathing. How could he save him? He needed to save him. He vaguely remembered an old text he had found in the library in Atlantica on how to perform something called mouth to mouth resuscitation. He knew now anything was worth a shot. He tilted John's head back a bit and held his nose. Sherlock didn't hesitate to place his lips on John's and blow air into his lungs. He hovered his ear over the John's mouth and looked at his chest to see if it was rising. No good. Sherlock was about to try again when suddenly John started coughing. Sherlock backed away a bit to give him some space. When John's hacking had ceased and he seemed to be breathing normally Sherlock went back to his original position at the man's side.

                "What... happened?" John said, his voice hoarse from coughing.

                "You almost drowned after your ship exploded. Without my help you’d be in the drink. I'm surprised you were able to swim back to your ship in the first place, what with your injuries. Not to mention that was quite the risk for the prince to put his life on the line to save a lowly cabin boy, John," Sherlock responded, stating the obvious.

                "How did you..." John tried to sit up, winced and lied back down. "How did you know... all that... and my name? Have we... have we met?" Sherlock could see John searching for something in his face, some detail to hold onto. But, no, Sherlock could feel the sun on his back from the sunrise. The glare was probably protecting his identity.

                "I knew all that because it was obvious and I doubt my name is important."

                "Of course it's important! You saved me!" John abruptly leaned upwards, a wave of dizziness making him fall back down onto the sand. A glare at his savior would have to suffice. "And to know all that about me, that's... that's brilliant."

                Sherlock was taken aback by that statement. Usually people called him a freak for having such talents. They were just closed-minded, not open enough to see the clearly obvious answers that were staring them directly in the face. When Sherlock pointed out these facts, he was just ostracized, but this man was praising him for such feats. If he hadn't been curious enough about Prince John, now he was at the peak of intrigue.

                "...Thank you..." Sherlock uttered, still a bit dazed from the compliment.

                "Now...about your name..." John said starting to form the question when he felt the fatigue of his experiences in the last couple hours hit him like the waves that had almost drowned him. No. No. He couldn't pass out. Not before he knew his savior's name. He had to at least have that.

                But no. His eyes started to sag and his vision started to tunnel as he began to drift into unconsciousness.

                Sherlock placed a tentative hand on John's chest to make sure he was still breathing. He let it linger there, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, confirming his livelihood.

                "John! John!"

                Sherlock couldn't stay any longer.

                Michael rushed to the limp body of his master. He was prepared for the worst, but was relieved to see that he was still alive and breathing. He looked around for a possible person to thank for this miracle, but Sherlock was already gone.

~~~~~~

                "What have I told you about going to the surface? It's dangerous and no place for a prince!" Mycroft said, pacing, or at least the mer-equivalent of pacing, in front of his thrown.

                "Mycroft it is not your duty, nor your job to order me around," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes in annoyance, "I'm not some guard that can be easily replaced."

                "But that's exactly my point," Mycroft retorted, "I can't have a crown prince, my brother, fraternizing with the affairs of the land dwellers. What do you think that would do to our public image?" Mycroft paced towards Sherlock this time, his face now inches away from Sherlock's. "What if they had caught you? They would have experimented on you until you were of no use to them any longer. I assume you would not want to be on the other side of the examining table." Mycroft turned around and started back to his thrown. He looked over his shoulder with a glare. "I don't want you going back to the surface, Sherlock."

                "But--" Sherlock started.

                "We are finished." Mycroft said firmly, grasping his hands behind his back.

                Sherlock decided it wasn't worth his time to try and get into a spat with his brother. He was in one of his moods where he was too pig-headed to understand anything logical. With a sigh, Sherlock left the throne room and started towards his hideout, a grotto located in the outskirts of Atlantica. It was the only place where he could be alone without being plagued by social demands of being a prince. Inside were his copious amounts of data from his escapades in ship wrecks, all organized in efficient groups along the walls of the cavern. He had appliances, inventions, utensils and even multiple "thingamabobs" as Molly called them.

                Simple trinkets only satisfied a simple need. He needed actual specimens to even begin to dissect the race from above. He yearned to be on the surface among the human race. He wanted to see how they moved, how they interacted. He could only get so far with the numerous books he'd retrieved over the years. He needed to be up there, amongst them, to get the details he needed to see the full picture.

                He didn't want to just ask questions to himself. He was frustrated with the answers his current resources had to offer. For example, he didn't have a book to explain how the phenomena “fire” burned. Sure he knew what it was, but how did it come to be? What components were needed to create it? Why was it shaped in such it fashion? To what degree could one touch it before ill effects occurred? These questions and more required assimilation. Assimilation required a pair of legs and Sherlock knew, to his dismay, those were unattainable.

                Just then Molly came into the cave with something in tow.

                "Sherlock, look what I found!" Molly said, dragging her discovery into the center of the cave using her mouth. She seemed quite eager about it. Then again, Molly was always eager to get Sherlock what he wanted. It was convenient, so Sherlock never questioned her motives.

                Sherlock grabbed the specimen off the cave floor and examined it. It was a painting and was quite a small and modest one at that. The rectangular frame was wooden with a bit of golden embellishment and the glass was already a bit chipped. Water had started to seep into the painting, distorting the colors, but Sherlock knew what it depicted. It was the man he had saved just the day before.

                John.

                It was a military portrait, with John in a uniform. It seemed like John had tried to look stately, but a bit of a smirk had gotten through the hard expression he had tried to assume. There were medals decorating his breast as well as a single star above them. From Sherlock's research on various militaries, that usually meant a very high rank. Of course Sherlock already knew John was a prince, but John seemed to be a prince of action. Sherlock liked that. To him it even seemed a bit attractive.

                Sherlock was surprised at this feeling. He had never felt any attraction to any merpeople or the like. No one ever seemed to amount to his intellect. In their ignorance, they would just brush him off as a freak that was too observant. How could the detective ever find such foolishness attractive?

                John, though, had said he was brilliant.

                Sherlock felt heat rush to his cheeks and the tips of his ears. Was he actually blushing? Had this man interested him so much that it would cause such a hormonal reaction? He traced the slight smirk with his finger. Maybe he had. Sherlock knew one thing for sure. He had to see John again.

                "Sherlock?"

                He lifted his gaze from the painting and realized Molly was still there, swimming a bit apprehensively.

Sherlock suddenly felt the need to get Molly out of the cavern. He wanted to be alone for some reason and he wanted to be quickly.

                "Molly, this is quite useful. I appreciate it," the worlds felt foreign as they fell off his tongue. Sherlock appreciated and thanked no one. He mostly did everything himself to begin with, so there was never much of a need to utter a polite "thank you". On occasion Molly did bring something of interest, but rarely. Usually it was either broken or something he already had twenty of.  Still, she at least brought _something_ , and that was why Sherlock had continued his relationship with her.

                "Could you find more, Molly?" Sherlock asked. That was the most logical method to get her out of there. Send her on a chase for something, she could possibly bring an item of interest back.

                "You mean like one of those thingamabobs?" Molly said, glancing over at the collection.

                "Yes, that would be lovely."

                Molly lit up at the sound of that. "Okay." she said with a smile. She darted out of the cave, eager to please.

                Finally. Alone. Sherlock's gaze was once again attracted to the painting. He had yet to put it down. He was even gripping it tightly, as if the painting meant the entire world to him. Maybe it did. Sherlock let himself drift to the bottom of the grotto and sit on the sand. He had to see John again. He had to. The impossibility be damned, he was going to find a way. For the first time he let go of the painting and gingerly laid it on the sand. He began to pace. How could he do it? How could he get himself a pair of legs? Surgery was out of the question. It would never work and he didn't have any legs to attach himself to anyway. How, how, how. Sherlock was beginning to get frustrated, another rare occurrence that John seemed to be the catalyst to. Sherlock angrily banged his fist against the wall of the cave, almost knocking over his trinkets.

                "Need some help, mate?"

                Sherlock turned around, startled. Swimming about eye level was an eel. Sherlock actually had an enmity with eels. He'd never liked them, the slimy excuses for fish. They always had something up their fins, and it usually was something distasteful.

                "I can get you what you need," the eel said, starting to circle around Sherlock lazily.

                "And how would you exactly accomplish that?" Sherlock asked, already annoyed.

                "My boss has..." he paused a bit, then a grin crawled on his face, "...connections."

                Sherlock frowned in distaste. It was clearly a trap; plain as day. This eel's "boss" was probably just some random criminal that slinked around in the darker depths of the ocean, wanting to capture the prince for some personal gain.

                "My boss also knows about that bloke you want to meet." the eels said, motioning toward the picture on the ground. "Quite dashing, isn't he?" The smirk slithered onto the eels face once again.

                This changed things. He obviously was dealing with something bigger than an urchin in the gross corners of Atlantica. Whatever "connections" this boss had, he obviously had good ones. Sherlock still knew this was a trap, but if this eel was telling the truth, maybe he could outsmart the boss and get what he wanted.

                A corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched upward. "Take me to him." he said.

                "As you wish, highness," said the eel, making an exaggerated bowing motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing from Sherlock's POV really makes me feel inferior when it comes to vocabulary. I really need to brush up on cool words.  
> Also, little tidbit to explain myself. I assumed Sherlock had access to books of some kind. I would hope the merpeople weren't an uneducated race. I'm also sure that Sherlock would have probably found ways to obtain books from the surface, what with his seagull network. I also assumed Sherlock knew what fire was, but that's not what Sherlock cares about. He cares about the HOW and WHY of fire, not the what (also, hey Disney, how does Ariel not know at least a teeny bit more about fire after seeing a firework show and rescuing her prince from a burning boat? Just curious.)  
> If you can guess who the eel is, you can most certainly guess who's up next.


	4. Warlocks and Deals with Some Legs on the Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand apologies for not getting this in sooner. A bunch of stuff came up at once and I had to of course do it all at once. As an added bonus I'm a bit under the weather right now, but it's nothing serious. I hope you lovelies enjoy these new longer chapters. They take a but longer to get done, but I would assume it would be better than getting a short chapter after a long wait. Any way ON WITH THE SHOW.

               The eel, Sebastian, lead Sherlock far away from Atlantica. They swam for quite a while until they came upon the carcass of a giant fish. The coral it sat upon had started to mold to the bones left from the fish's demise had whittled the rib cage to nothing, replacing it with its own growth. The coral jutted upwards, blunted tentacles pointing towards the sky. Its tail had been preserved and was laying off to the side of the coral mountain it sat upon. Even more eerie, its eyeballs had been preserved as well, making then shining globes of turquoise. Its maw was frozen in a screech, pointed teeth exposed and threatening; its mouth was open wide enough to fit at least one hundred mermen. As they approached the entry, Sherlock could see a bright, magenta glow coming from the mouth of the fish and some smoke surrounding it. The eel kept going, but Sherlock paused. He started to observe the knife-like teeth of the giant fish, attempting to figure out what species it was.

                "Come on," Sebastian urged, swimming further into the rib cage. Sherlock complied and swam behind him. The coral had lined the ways of the cage, forming a cave inside.. As Sherlock swam in further, he noticed something writhing on the cave floor. In the darkness he couldn't make out what it was, but he assumed it was just a type of seaweed, until the jaws of one of the stalks grasped his arm. He gasped in surprise to find the "stalks" all had faces that were on heads that seemed bloated compared to the rest of their rail thin stalk bodies.  None of the faces were distinguishable from one another; all of them had wrinkled visages that were contorted in agony and wide hollow eyes.  They all writhed in dances of torment, and started to reach up toward Sherlock, grasping his arms as if to warn him of what was ahead.

                He struggled against the stalks vice-like grip and managed to break free. Sebastian seemed to have disappeared.

                "Come, _in_ , honey." said a voice inside the cave, "You know it's _rude_ to just stand at the front door gawking." Sherlock saw eight tentacles creep out from the darkest part of the cave. Maybe Sherlock was right about this boss. The tentacles were attached to a human body, similar to that of a merman. This man had eyes dark as the lowest chasms of the sea and a smirk almost permanently stuck on his face. He moved his eight tentacles with a swagger that would seem impossible for a normal octopus that oozed cheekiness

                "You'd think being raised at the palace would guarantee good manners," the man-octopus said, rolling his eyes.

                "I remember you," said Sherlock, "You were the culprit of the coup that happened years ago!"

                "The name is Moriarty, hun," he said, coming over and shaking Sherlock's hand, "And it wasn't really a ‘coup’ more of a…forced promotion."  

                "You tried to overthrow the king,"

                "I was just being ambitious," Moriarty said with a dramatic shrug, "All I was trying to do was get ahead in life and what do I get? Banishment for all eternity from your dear old daddy. How is he doing by the way?" Moriarty put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

                "Dead,"

                "Oh, what a _shame_." Moriarty flamboyantly covered his mouth in surprise, letting go of the prince's shoulder. Just then Sherlock felt one of the octopus's tentacles brush up against his arse. He jumped a bit in surprise.                

                "Oooo, touchy," he said flirtatiously. "I like that."

                Sherlock kept his face composed.

                Moriarty's eyes gave Sherlock a once over and then he let out a sigh, dissatisfied with his lack of reaction.

                "Anyway," Moriarty said, turning back to some sort of cabinet on the wall, "I understand you're infatuated with a prince from above." Moriarty looked over his shoulder, his know-it-all grin back on his face. "I understand he's quite the catch."

                "I'm not infatuated." Sherlock spat.

                "Don't lie to yourself, sugar, you've fallen head over tailfin for that land hunk." Moriarty started to throw bottles of various sizes and colors into some sort cauldron-like mouth in the center of the cave. "Frankly, I don't blame you. What I wouldn't give to get my tentacles on _him_." Moriarty giggled as he threw two more bottles into the mouth.

                "I still don't see how you'll be able to help me," Sherlock crossed his arms, seeming to be bored. In reality he was enraged with this low life thinking such thoughts about his specimen.  How dare he think such vulgar things about John. How dare he even _think_ that he would ever have a chance with John.  Before Sherlock could go any further he caught himself. What was he becoming, a jealous teenage mergirl? What was John doing to him? All this emotion and feeling boiling up inside him, and of all things jealousy? This was foreign territory Sherlock did _not_ want to encroach upon; it a weakness that he couldn’t afford. Yet… there was some other small part of him that thought otherwise…

                "Oh, heh heh heh," the sea warlock giggled, "I've yet to introduce you to my whole pitch."

                Moriarty went back into Sherlock's personal space. "Ya see I help poor unfortunate souls like yourself. People who want what they can't get, that's what I'm for. I'm pretty much a saint." Moriarty sailed back over to the cauldron. "A little magic here, a little payment there, and I can make anyone's dream come true." He trailed his finger along a tooth of the cauldron. "The only catch is you have to pay," he rapidly turned and shoved his face into Sherlock's, "Or you're _mine_."

                Sherlock heard moans of anguish from the creatures behind him.

                "Ah yes, you met my ‘garden’ back there," the warlock pointed to where the stalks that had attacked Sherlock were. "That's what happens when you can't pay."As the warlock said this, his face contorted into almost a growl. “MAGIC DOESN’T COME FREE, IDIOTS!” he yelled in response to the cries that had gotten louder. “IT’S NOT MY FAULT THAT THE MERHUMAN RACE IS SO _STUPID_ TO AGREE TO A BARGAIN THEY CAN’T PAY FOR!” He then looked at Sherlock, changed back to what he was only minutes before, “Honestly, I don’t even know why I keep them,” he said, jabbing his thumb in the garden’s direction, “But it’s their punishment, they can’t die, that’s what PEOPLE do, not plants trapped for eternity.” The word “people” stirred up more screams and moans, causing Moriarty to roll his eyes in annoyance.

                Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Were people ever able to really pay?

                "So, long story short, I can give you legs so you can have lovely kisses and romantic walks on the beach with that hot prince up there."

                Sherlock blushed furiously. That was obviously _not_ his intention.

                "God, you're cute," Moriarty said, "Any who, let's get to the good stuff." Moriarty motioned Sherlock over to the cauldron. He hesitantly swam over. Smoke had started to boil up from the cauldron in fumes.

                "I can make you a potion that can make you a human for a week," the smoke showed Sherlock transforming into a man, "Normally I'd do it for only three days, but I think this prince of yours still may be having some issues with which way he swings, if ya know what I mean,” he said, jabbing his elbow towards Sherlock as if they were mates joking about something. It made Sherlock cringe slightly.” So I'll give you a bonus, but writing is off limits. That would just make it too easy." Moriarty's grin grew wider as he changed the smoke again, this time it showed a heart with a crown encircling it. "Now, before sunset on the seventh day you have to get your prince to give you a smooch. And not just any smooch, nuh-uh, it has to be the kiss of true love." Moriarty, to Sherlock's disgust, made kissing sounds before he continued. "If you don't get a lip-lock before then, you belong to me." Moriarty clapped his hands through the smoke, dissipating it immediately. "Any questions?" he asked, winking at Sherlock.

                "You spoke of payment."

                "Ah yes, clever, clever," Moriarty went back into the cabinet and retrieved a conch shell. "I'll give your legs for the itty-bitty price of," he paused dramatically, "Your voice."

                "My... voice?" Sherlock said.

                "Yes," Moriarty purred, "I just love everything about it. I must have it. The least you could do is lend it to me for a week." Moriarty pouted and made a sort of puppy-dog face.

                "How am I going to "seduce" a man if I don't have a voice," said Sherlock, sarcastically using air quotes.

                "Honestly, do I have to think of everything for you?" Moriarty said, rolling his eyes once again. "A little piece of advice then: don't under estimated the power of," Moriarty paused as he put the conch down and rubbed his hands along his hips, " _body language_."

                Sherlock rolled his eyes. He didn't really see the threat in this man.

                "To be completely honest, men up above don't really like idle chatter any way. You're probably better off not being able to talk to being with."

                Sherlock highly doubted that.

                "You'll just need to sign on this dotted line," Moriarty said. A gold contract appeared in one hand and a pen made of a fish's spine in the other.

                Sherlock knew better than to just sign a contract he had yet to read. He thoroughly examines it, reading all of the text, fine and otherwise. The contract itself wasn’t all that long briefly stating what was already talked about earlier and nothing else. It seemed a bit simple, but perhaps this was Moriarty’s game. When everything’s simple, what is there to worry about? To the common mind, nothing, but to Sherlock’s it meant everything. The simplest scale could mean everything in a murder; the simplest contract could mean everything in an agreement. . He of course could seem insecure about the simplicity, but he couldn’t let Moriarty see that, no, that would give him the advantage. He would have to pass as a pompous git to give the warlock a false sense of security. It was a risk, but all the better if it worked.  Such an underestimation of the detective would put him at a disadvantage, which Sherlock could exploit later.

                Sherlock made a scoffing noise, grabbed the pen eagerly and signed his name as boisterously as he could.

                "Let's get this show on the road!" Moriarty exclaimed. He swirled the potion in the cauldron around by making circular motions with his arms. Multiple colors of smoke started to combust from the cauldron as Moriarty swirled the potion faster and faster.

                 Sherlock tried to get a closer look but instead saw something horrifying. A hand made of green smoke snaked out of the shell and was darting toward him. It slithered into his throat and up into his mouth, going deeper and deeper. He was close to choking as the hand reached farther, burning his esophagus along the way.  Suddenly, it seemed to grasp something and yanked at it. Sherlock yelled in agony, but was muted when the hand quickly drew out of his throat a glowing light. From the light emanated the timbres of Sherlock's voice: his baritone sarcasm, his staccato deductions, his cries of boredom, even the yell that had been cut off earlier. The hand receded into the conch shell as fast as it came before, Sherlock's voice in its grasp.

                "Payment received," Moriarty said, sneering, "Here's your reward." The smoke blew up into a giant crescendo. A tentacle of the potion enveloped Sherlock in a bubble and began the process. Lightening crashed and the maniacal cackle of Moriarty bounced of the ribs of his lair. Sherlock could feel his tail being ripped apart. He writhed inside the bubble as his tail split into two legs. He curled into the fetal position, trying to contain the pain of the transformation. He folded in on himself tighter and tighter, when suddenly the bubble quickly popped.

                Sherlock opened his mouth in surprised and almost gasped when he realized something else had been taken from him. He could no longer breathe under water! He tried to kick his tail, but then realized there wasn't one. He started to panic, trying to get his newfound limbs to function.

                "Sherlock!" someone yelled from the entrance. It was Mrs. Hudson with Molly in tow.

                Sherlock wanted to express his gratitude for Mrs. Hudson's worry, but his lungs begged for air. They felt like they were on fire and shriveling at the same time. Mrs. Hudson noticed this and hurried over with Molly. Sherlock noticed that two dolphins had accompanied them.

                What was Sherlock doing? He had to get himself to safety. He feebly tried to kick his legs and propel himself, but to no avail. Sherlock grew weaker as he started to drown in unconsciousness. He felt the dolphins come under him and them pushing him toward the surface. As the darkness completely enveloped him, he heard Moriarty coyly yell in the distance, "Come again, sugar!"

~~~~~~

                "You can come out now, dear," Moriarty said, looking back at the corner he had hid in once before.

                "When did you notice me?" said a woman's velvety voice. Out of the darkness came out none other than the Dominatrix, Irene Adler. She was a beautiful merwoman, with the tail of an angel fish. She had often helped Moriarty on occasion, though she did have a bit of distaste for the man. In all honesty, he and his tentacles made her skin crawl.

                "Irene, dear, I can sniff you out a league away," Moriarty said, resting his elbows on the cauldron.

                "Quite the deal you just made," she said, putting her hands on her hips, "It's not always you get to serve royalty."

                "You're right," Moriarty said, stirring his finger in the remnants of the potion in the cauldron, "But that's all going to change."

                "And how's that?" Irene asked, though she could guess the answer.

                "Well, if you must know," Moriarty said, "I’m going to mess with his contract. There is no way I’m letting him get away. He presents so many opportunities for me, oh and _you too.”_         

“Really?” Irene said, with purposive lack of enthusiasm.

                “Yes, you’ll get to be my right hand gal.” Moriarty gave a coy smile, as if that could convince Irene further. 

               

               

                “What do you want me to do?” the merwoman said with a huff, cutting to the chase. She knew Moriarty’s methods, and nothing was without a price when it came to him.

                “Well, I’m going to have you screw with that prince’s contract, if you would pardon the pun.”

                “You expect me to just up and have sex with a total strangerjust so I can supposedly be by your side in Atlantica?”

                “Yup, that’s the plan.”

                “I don’t even know why I bother with you sometimes…” Irene said with a sigh.

                “You still _owe_ me, Irene,” Moriarty said, spinning around suddenly to look at her. His eyes were black again in simmering rage. “I helped that pretty little face of yours, but I only kept you because you seemed useful to me. One false move, just _one_ , and I will make sure your eternity will be more excruciating than the rest of my garden.” He had narrowed his eyes and had made his way over to the Dominatrix, and was now almost on top of her. She’d begun to shrink under him; she also knew when he was in one of these moods it was an assurance of survival to stay out of his way.

                “I’m sure royalty will suit you,” she said with a bit more enthusiasm to stave off the warlock’s mood.

                "Honey," Moriarty said, rubbing his hands together, "You should see me in a crown."

~~~~~~

 

Sherlock woke up face first in sand. What a pleasant way to greet the morning. He struggled to get up, but his arms felt gelatinous and he collapsed back into the sand.

                "Glad to see you awake."

                Sherlock glanced to see Mrs. Hudson pinching her claws in satisfaction.

                "Thank you for the rescue," he said. Or at least that's what he tried to say, but nothing came out. Sherlock flopped onto his back, wishing he could thank Mrs. Hudson because she actually deserved it.

                "What's wrong dear?" the pink crab said worriedly.

                Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it again, feeling idiotic. He shook his head and touched his throat (he also noted the lack of gills).

                "Oh Sherlock, don't tell me you made a deal with that warlock." Sherlock nodded. "So you gave up your voice to live on land, dear?" Another nod. Thank Poseidon Mrs. Hudson could put two and two together relatively quickly.

                "Well, at least he told the truth when he said he'd give you a pair of legs," Mrs. Hudson said as she pointed her claw toward where Sherlock's fin used to be.

                Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows slowly to get a better look at his legs. They were long and slender with what Sherlock presumed were feet attached to them. He wiggled what he thought were called toes and smiled at his new found skill. Feeling energized he tried to stand up and immediately regretted it as he fell backwards on his arse. Much to his chagrin he heard Mrs. Hudson giggle a bit.

                "Mind as well get back up and try again, dear. You'll need the practice."

                Sherlock pouted as he tried to get up again. This time he stayed up for about 30 seconds before he fell again. Progression.  After some maneuvering though, he managed to get used to his center of gravity and achieved balance. Now came the hard part: walking.

                Sherlock had seen many a land dweller walk,  but actually doing it was another situation entirely. Trying to imitate from memory, Sherlock started putting one foot in front of the other for about two feet before his arms were flailing and he was struggling to stay up right. This was entirely humiliating. Maybe along with the legs, Moriarty could have included some instructions.

                "Once you get yourself sorted, I suggest you find something to put on dear. You're stark naked," said Mrs. Hudson, who had sat through the entire thing chuckling here and there.

                Sherlock did realize that, yes, he was indeed naked. It was actually pretty cold. He really would have to figure out how to get something to cover himself up.

                Suddenly in the distance he heard the barking of a dog and a yell of someone familiar.

                "Sherlock, quick, cover yourself!" Mrs. Hudson said frantically as she scuttled to hide behind the nearest rock. Sherlock looked around quickly and found a mast that still had a sail attached to it. It would have to do. He wrapped himself in it like he did at home with the sheets from his bed. Mycroft would always tell him to dress more sophisticated than just a sheet, but it wasn't as if he would ever take his brother's advice. "A prince should know better," he would always say. Well, damn him, this was serious.

                "Gladstone! Come here boy!' yelled the familiar voice. Sherlock heard barks growing louder and louder until he was assaulted by a bull dog. It barked at him and chased him up a small rock. Sherlock was drawing his feet in and trying to shoo the dog away when the owner of the familiar voice came.

                It was John! Sherlock couldn't believe it.

                "Oh my..." John said, pushing Gladstone away from Sherlock. "Are you alright?" Sherlock nodded.          

                "Can't speak, eh?"

Sherlock shook his head.

                "Hm," John said. He started to look Sherlock up and down with a concerned expression on his face. Suddenly Sherlock was more self-conscious of his sail.

                "Do I…do I know you from somewhere?" John asked.

                _Well yes, I saved your life,_ is what Sherlock wanted to say, but he could never risk revealing the existence of his race. He couldn't talk anyhow, so he shook his head again.

                "Hm," John said again. The prince studied Sherlock for a moment, cataloging him.

“Have we met before?” John asked. Sherlock shook his head again. John couldn’t know his identity. For once the detective was going to follow his brother’s advice. This was certainly not a good time to reveal the existence of a whole other species of human that lived underwater.

“Were you ship wrecked?”  John said, concern seeping into his tone.

Sherlock considered this. It would be a good idea to use that as an excuse, though that may not explain why Sherlock didn't have any clothes. The other plans he’d already formulated in his mind wouldn’t be as good as just saying he had been on a wreck, not to mention how tedious it would be to communicate another excuse . The former merman nodded.

                "I see..." John said, slowly nodding. He licked his lips. "I'm guessing then you have no idea where you are and you also have nowhere to stay." Another nod.

                "Well…I can't leave you out here..." John scratched his head, seeming unsure of something. “It’s too late to try and get you in an inn. There— wait,” John abruptly stopped his train of thought, “Are there any clothes under there?”

Sherlock shook his head.

 “Ah, Jesus.” John ran a hand on his face. He scratched his head. He looked at his feet, then to Gladstone, then to Sherlock, then back to his feet.

_This must be awkward for him. Virgin?_ Sherlock observed John as he seemed to be fumbling with the thought of finding a naked man on the beach wrapped up in a sail. _No. Virgin with males? Possibly._ The detective dually noted the hard work that would be ahead of him. Finally collecting himself, John stated, “I—I guess you could just come to stay at the palace. It’s plenty big, and we don’t get visitors there much anyway.”

                Sherlock felt a smile break across his face. What better way to get his kiss than to be with his prince almost all hours of the day? Things were working in his favor.

                "Would you like to stay?" John asked suddenly.

                _Is that even a question?_ Sherlock thought. He nodded again, this time a bit harder to convey his enthusiasm.

                "Good… good." John smiled. That smile was so perfect. Sherlock could feel the blood rush to his cheeks. How hormonal. He mentally sighed and scolded himself. "Well, guess we should get going." John held out a hand to Sherlock. He took it and lost his balance as he came off the rock he had been perched on and fell into the prince's arms. Sherlock looked up at John, embarrassed, but the solider just smiled and started to laugh a bit. The former merman smiled too. "Let me help you there." John helped Sherlock lean against his shoulder. The height difference in the two made it a bit awkward, but the solider made it work.

                "C’mon, Gladstone!" John yelled as he helped Sherlock start walking along the beach, being careful not to let the sail fall. With the faithful bulldog in the lead, the awkward couple started toward the palace.

~~~~~~

                "So I hear you were found on the beach."

                Sherlock had been brought to John's enormous palace, contrasting to the prince's humble personality. The former merman was given a bath by one of the servants and then fitted with clothes-- black slacks and a purple button up shirt that fit him just so. Now he was sitting at a long dinner table with John across from him and his butler, Michael, at the head of the table. Sherlock wondered for a brief moment why John wasn't at the head, but considering the previously mentioned personality, it seemed the prince hardly ever let that status go to his head.

                "Yes, I just found him sitting on a rock. Gladstone was trying to lick him to death when I found him," John said, a smirk gracing his face.

                _I remember otherwise,_ Sherlock thought, looking down at the silverware. They were a bit different from the utensils used in Altlantica, but it wouldn't take long for Sherlock to figure them out.

                 "Well isn't that interesting..." said Michael as he twirled his fork, "Where are you from?"

                Sherlock opened his mouth to answer but then closed it again, remembering his situation.

                "Oh, Mike, he, erm, he can't speak," John said apologetically, "I forgot to tell you. I'm sorry."

                "It's quite alright, John. You certainly don't have to apologize." From just this exchange Sherlock could tell they were more than servant and master. They looked and talked to each other as equals. The former merprince had never really desired such a relationship with any of his servants. All his care takers could never amount to his intellect, even when he was a young child, and none of the other servants ever wanted to glance his way. The Holmes family had a long history of cold but just rulers, and based on that everyone assumed Sherlock was as heartless as his predecessors. It's not that he wasn't, he just thought it idiotic to come to a conclusion without having irrefutable data.

                "Sir?"

                The detective hadn't realized he had lapsed into a musing session. He looked up to find Michael and John both looking at him questioningly.

                "Would you like to stay here until you can go back home?" the butler asked, almost as if Sherlock was a child.

                _Just because I can't speak doesn't mean I lack intelligence,_ Sherlock thought testily. He would have made a face, but they were offering him a place to stay, and he didn't want to give the impression he was ungrateful. That would just make things complicated. He assumed the best grin he could muster and nodded enthusiastically.

                "Wonderful," Michael said happily. "Ah, there's our dinner."

                Sherlock followed the butler's gaze and saw three covered dishes on a trolley. A servant stood behind each person at the table and proceeded to place the dishes in front of them and lifted the covers. Sherlock almost fell out of his seat in horror.

                On the plate was a lobster that had had its shell ripped off and insides gutted, then the insides placed back inside and the shell placed back as decoration. Sherlock knew the humans ate fish, but the sight of one in front of him made him want to vomit. He thought back to Mrs. Hudson, picturing her being gutted and stuffed again. He heard the crunch of the shell as Michael began extract the meat from his. The former merman couldn't bear it.

                "Excuse me, are you alright?" Sherlock had a napkin to his mouth and could feel the waves of nausea in his stomach. He looked up at John, who had a worried expression on his face. Sherlock shook his head no, not too vigorously as he was afraid he may actually vomit.

                "I'm going to take him back to his room, sorry, Mike," John said, again apologetically as he stood up at walked around the table to Sherlock.

                "Not at all, not at all," the butler said absentmindedly as he ate more lobster.

                "C'mon," John said gently as he took Sherlock's hand and led him out of the dining hall. The feeling of the prince's warm hand against Sherlock's now clammy one was comforting for the former merman. He was stumbling behind John as he saw him to his room. The detective tried to memorize the floor plan of the castle, but he was still trying to get over the nausea. He couldn't believe he had gotten so squeamish at the sight of a dead fish. He had seen numerous dead bodies, fish and merman alike and he'd even surrounded himself with them on occasion for experimental purposes. Maybe the new legs had a part in it, the detective had no data on what walking on two legs could do to a former merman as it had never been done before, at least as far as he knew.

                "We're here," John said, stopping in front of the door. Sherlock looked down and noticed John was still holding his hand. He wanted this moment to last longer, so he didn't instigate the separation. It wasn't until John noticed their hands were still together that they finally separated.

                "Well, uh," John said awkwardly as he scratched the back of his head. Sherlock looked at him expectantly, which probably was making the prince more nervous. "Would you like to come with me to survey the town? It's a duty I have to fulfil and I thought you'd like to see the town."

                Sherlock was ecstatic. He felt a smile spread wide across his face and without warning he hugged John tightly.

                The solider grew rigid at the sudden contact. Sherlock realized what he was doing and quickly let go. Another strange reaction he couldn't understand. He felt the other reaction flooding his cheeks and making them hot and cursed himself. He looked down at his feet and started towards the door.

                As if snapping out of a trance John said, "I'll take that as a yes..." and walked away. Sherlock shut the door and slid to the floor. How embarrassing, how petty, how… _human_. What was he becoming? What was the catalyst to these impulses? He jumped up and paced, his brain now awhirl with thoughts, questions, answers. He was so impressed in the pacing that he didn't notice Mrs. Hudson climb into the window and on the bed. She started to call his name quietly, but he ceased to notice.

                "SHERLOCK!" Mrs. Hudson screamed. Sherlock almost tripped in surprise. He ran over to the bed and sat next to Mrs. Hudson, knowing she had much to tell him.

                "You have no idea what it took to get here, I was almost cooked!" Mrs. Hudson was in hysterics. Sherlock knew not how to comfort her, but he would certainly kill the person who made Mrs. Hudson this way. "There will be no killing, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson warned, reading his mind, "It wouldn't give a good impression or get you that kiss any time soon."

                Sherlock pouted and then transitioned to an inquiring look, silently questioning Mrs. Hudson as to what had happened.

                "Oh, Sherlock, it was terrible," cried Mrs. Hudson, "I managed to get into the castle by climbing up the high rocks, but where I came in was the worst place possible!" Sherlock's eyes narrowed, already deducing where Mrs. Hudson had ended up. "I landed in the kitchen and on a cutting board no less! Oh, it's terrible just thinking about it!" Mrs. Hudson fanned her claw at her face to try and stave off her tears Sherlock tried his best to aid Mrs. Hudson, despite not really knowing what to do. He placed his hand on her shell. Mrs. Hudson recognized the sentiment and placed a claw on his hand. Recollecting herself, she continued her tale. She told of a French cook who sang as he chopped up other fish and how  almost dying from being thrown in boiling water.Sherlock had assumed a calm mask during the retelling, but inside he had started to simmer a bit with anger. No one would hurt Mrs. Hudson. Ever. Despite her warning, he still had started to think of around 40 to 50 possibilities of how he would make the cook pay.

                "I would love to hear what's got you all in a tuss, but I guess I can't can I?" Mrs. Hudson said, hinting with her tone on how she felt about Sherlock's deal with the sea warlock.  Sherlock deduced the best way of communicating would be charades. After around 30 minutes of Mrs. Hudson guessing and Sherlock trying to stay composed, knowing he might not be the best charades player, he had managed to communicate he was going out with the prince tomorrow.

                "That's wonderful, dear!" Mrs. Hudson said, clapping her claws, "you're on your way to making that prince fall head over fin, or I guess it's feet, for you. But what are you going to wear? Certainly not that rag of a sail you found on the beach, I absolutely forbid it." As an answer, Sherlock gracefully got out of bed and went over to his closet. He pulled it open to reveal the numerous button-down shirts, dress pants, and other items of clothing that the servants of the castle had provided for him. He let a small grin come on his face as a reaction to Mrs. Hudson's awe.

                "Well then," she said, hopping off the bed and going over to the closet, "let's get started."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene where John and Sherlock meet up again was such a pain in the patootie. Literally in the Disney movie Eric's just all, "Well, ok, you could just come to my house." After Sherlock Series 3 came out I got to get more familiar with everyone again and thus familiar with John's awkward nature, gotta love the stuff.   
> Also Moriarty's a bit OOC because he's been Ursula'd (yes that's a thing.) My main inspiration for most of the exchange between him and Sherlock was from [this deleted scene.](http://youtu.be/lXaeH0R0Rzg) and it's just perfect.


	5. Flashbacks, Bad Driving, and A Case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hello, everyone. I don't know what I could say to justify the fact that I haven't updated for almost half a year. I feel awful for making you lovely readers wait this long; I know the pain of following a fic that doesn't update forever. All I can say is life events decided to happen and I got extremely busy. Again, major apologies, hopefully a two chapter update with about 7.5k words will make up for it.
> 
> ALSO: Some triggering things (?) in this chapter. John's having war flashbacks, so there's going to be some depressing stuff in the beginning. If you're triggered by things of that nature (gore, depression, etc.) skip over that part and it basically stops after the break.

John had taken a man in off the beach, clothed him, gave him food (sort of) and now he was taking him to see the city. How was this progressing so fast? John was still recovering from the war, its aftershocks still rocking through him and his dreams. Still giving him cold sweats, chills, phantom pains. It wormed its way into his mind and leeched onto it, never letting him forget the terror.

The howls of the many men who'd lost anything from fingers to whole chunks of their body. Some cried for their family, others tried to but gurgled instead. And it was all John's fault. John, the prince who lead his men into a trap. John, the prince who couldn't be on the front lines with them. He hated it. He would do all he could in the wards, picking up whatever medical knowledge he could from his peers. It was the least he could do. This guilt kept building throughout each and every battle. He would apologize constantly: to soldiers, to doctors, to the sky; anything that would listen. His mantra became, "I am so sorry.

He would scrabble through the medical tent, trying to find alcohol to sedate and sterilize. It would run out, yet the whole tent would somehow reek of it, mingling with the tang of iron blood and the stench of sweat. He would feel the crushing weight of guilt on his chest when the patient would nearly die, survive, but simply beg for death later. The mantra would ring through John's head. He would try to say it, but his throat would dry at its inadequacy. Later, when both the day and his thoughts were at their darkest, John would sit on his cot, hearing the creak of it trying to bear his weight. John could feel himself breaking as the death toll rose. Clasping his hands till his knuckles were white and scrunching his eyes up, John would try to stay together. Mike would sometimes stand near the opening flap of his master’s tent, watching him struggle. The prince was always aware of that worried presence behind the fabric.

Then there was that day.              

John always remembered it in extreme detail; how could he ever forget it?

He thought he had accounted for all the possibilities. There was an ambush. His men were across the battlefield. He left himself and his personal guard wide open. How could he have been so stupid?

 A small force of 10 or so men attacked from behind. It was amazing how quiet they had been, but then again it was war. There was always the white noise of gunfire, battle cries, and so on. Two of John’s best guards fell first. The third guard gave a yelp, giving the assassins away. John immediately jerked himself into his military attitude: stoic, prepared, unforgiving. Just because he was a prince doesn't mean he wasn't prepared. He peeked out of the meeting tent –he and his advisors had been planning their next move –and made a motion for all of them to hide. Of course all of them refused. These were military hardened men, ready to defend their chief commander at the drop of a hat. They made a circle on inside of the enclosure, making a look-out for the assassins. Mike was on John's left, ready to go. They silently communicated to each other that they would wait for the assassins to assume they were still unaware of their presence. Still, someone had to go out and keep watch on them. John was ready to volunteer, but an advisor beat him to the punch.

For all of John's memory of this event, one of the only things he doesn't remember is his advisor's name. Another regret to add to the pile he carries every day. It was the last time John saw that advisor alive. They had overestimated the assassins, and before they knew it their lookout was dead and their tent was being shredded by gunshots. Everyone ducked and tried to find cover amidst the volley. John was just about to hide under the crate when he was struck with a pain he will never forget. It was like someone had set his nerve endings on fire whilst tearing through his flesh.

The momentum from the bullet sent John to the ground, writhing in agony. Mike was immediately at his side, dragging his friend's body under the table. John's vision then started to blur; his ears started to ring with endless gunshot fire and it was as if the world was collapsing around him.

Then there was silence and darkness.

~~~~~~

The days following the ambush are when the prince's memory grows hazy. He remembers tidbits of things: the pain that never seemed to subside, feeling as if it had permeated throughout his entire body, and with each pulse from his wounded shoulder the pain would come in a wave, dull, and then surge through the cycle again; the screams of agony that would make his mind question their source until he realized they were _his_ cries; the mistaken thoughts in his delirium that he had died and gone to hell; his faithful butler clutching his hand and muttering reassurances. He was later told that there was no exit wound and they didn't have any alcohol for him either when they did the procedure.

John sometimes wonders if in those times he had wanted to die too.

Before John knew it he was waking up in a bed, Mike by his side, with a throbbing shoulder and a limp. Mike had told him he'd been in and out for a week and that they were sending John home. The treaties were to be signed soon; the war was coming to an end. From that moment on John felt as if he was in limbo. Not anchored in the reality that the fight was over; not positive that it all wasn't just a dream. Just stuck in the middle with his damn leg.

A knock at the door startled John out of his musings. He hadn't realized he had clenched his hands into fists until he uncurled his fingers as the door opened. As John suspected Mike was at the door, announcing that John's guest was ready to go.

"He's really quite eager to leave, sire. I suggest getting into something a little more proper." John was wearing nothing but the night shirt he had slept in last night.

"Ah, jeez, yeah. Thanks, Mike."

Mike promptly closed the door as John started rummaging through his drawers to find suitable clothes for a just-returned prince to wear around his fine kingdom. One would expect that John would have servants flocking around him at this stage of the process: grooming him and getting him ready to serve a good example, but no. John hated the attention he got as prince, if he was completely honest with himself. He preferred homely modesty to superfluous overcompensation. He liked seeming to be on the same level as his citizens, instead of a god-like figure to be propped up on a pedestal. He especially enforced this belief with his men. John always refused the luxury being the prince would grant him on the battlefield. He ate the same things his men ate, drank the same things they drank, slept in the same beds with the same blankets. Equality was John's philosophy and no bloodline that he chanced upon having was going to stop him from enforcing that belief.

Once John was ready to go he grabbed his cane and set off. John tried to not use his walking stick whenever he could, but sometimes he just had those days where his phantom pains wouldn't give up the ghost. Today was one of those days. He limped out of his room and closed the door; not making sure the door was locked. John trusted his staff, with his life even; there wasn't anything worth stealing in his modest room anyway.

As John made his way down the hall to the foyer where he assumed his guest would be, he began to ponder about said man. What a conundrum he was. Shipwrecked with no clothes and mute on top of that? Not to mention the odd familiarity that surrounded him, although the prince was sure he would remember someone like his guest. His looks were borderline alien, yet they all fit together in a strange harmony. The high cheek bones, the Cupid’s bow lips, and his _eyes._ John swore to God that they changed color with the drop of a hat; one minute they would be sea foam green, the next they would be a fiery green-gold. _Maybe they change with his mood_ , he thought, smiling to himself. More oddities to add to the pile he supposed. What was more mind-boggling was why he was so drawn to this handsome man. He couldn't understand why he wanted to be with him, be his friend. He even offered to take him into town, something that someone as socially-inept as John had become could probably never do, yet with this shipwrecked person it all came easily. The hug afterward was somewhat awkward at first, but after a second or two the prince realized he liked it. It was nice being appreciated in that way: to be engulfed in someone else's warmth and gratitude. It was nice.

John had hobbled over to the top of the stairs before he saw his strange guest. Looking over the mahogany wood banister, he saw him fiddling with a button on the cuff of his shirt. He had chosen a purple button down that fit him quite nicely, along with a pair of black slacks and shoes of the same color. He kept on rolling his sleeve up and down in almost a nervous manner, as if he couldn't decide what season to conform to. He also had an excited air about him, with a little grin playing on his lips. Of course, when he noticed John watching him, the grin disappeared to be replaced with a slightly embarrassed look. He also decided on leaving the button down's sleeves up.

"Well, aren't you prepared?" John asked, automatically falling into the familiarity he had just pondered.

The mute gave a sharp and decisive nod.

"I guess we should be off then," the prince said, a grin of his own starting to form.

Being a good host, he led his guest into the stables. They were large, holding at least 14 horses, more on a busy day. The ground was lined with dry grass; it smelled of hay, feed, and, of course, horse. Despite the slight dirtiness of the stables, John felt at home here. The connection he had with each of the horses in this keep rivaled that of the bond he shared with Gladstone. When he was young, he would sneak out of the castle and sleep with the horses, reveling in the warmth he felt when they were close by. He would come back the next morning, hay in his hair, and his parents would scold him for getting his garments dirty. Eventually, though, they gave up after their son just kept going back, no matter the consequences.

He had started to hook up two white stallions to the carriage (all of the royalty's horses were white, as was custom) when he noticed that the mute had stopped dead at the door. He was standing stock straight, arms behind his back and was eyeing the horses with an intensity John had never seen the likes of before. It was as if he was trying to absorb everything he could about the creatures in the shortest amount of time.

"What, never seen a horse before?" John asked jokingly, expecting a look that implied that his guest thought him the highest of idiots.

Instead there was only a small noncommittal shrug, along with a look of regret as well as frustration.

John read that body language as a no, and asked, "Really? They don't have horses where you live?" He knew this man had been shipwrecked, but how exotic of a place could he have come from to have never seen a horse?

There was a slow shake of the head, the reluctance of admitting he didn't clearly drawn in the creases between his eyebrows and his frown.

"Hm," the prince said which seemed to have become his stock response for his guest. "Come over here," he said, motioning for the man to walk over to the horses. Slowly at first, then with a pace quickening with each step, the man came up to the horses and John. "Give me your hand," the military man softly ordered, holding out his. Hesitantly, a hand was placed there. It was then carefully placed on the snout of the horse. John smiled at the surprised look on his tenant's face as he felt the velvet soft skin of the horse's nose.

"If you keep it there for too long, he'll start to lick you. Edvard's always looking for food." John knew all the horses by name, knowing them better than he knew most of the people in the royal court.

Despite the warning, the man kept his hand there, as the horse snuffled at it and started to lick it, despite no food being in the palm of his hand.

"Hang on, I've got an idea," the prince said, holding his finger up as he made his way over to a chest pushed up against the wall. He rummaged around in it, before he said, "Aha," when he found what he'd been looking for. It was a small aluminum tin filled with sugar cubes. He opened it with a pop, and watches with a tinge of pleasure as he saw both Edvard's and Hans’s (the other stallion) ears perk up and their eyes widen in anticipation. Edvard had begun to paw at the ground, impatient to get the cubes he desired. The mute also seemed to take note of these mannerisms, having proceeded to take his hand off the horses nose and had bent down to look at the hoof movements.

"It would be best if you could get your head out of kicking range," John warned, heading over with the tin in hand. As soon as his guest got up from his crouch on the ground, the prince placed two cubes into his hand

"Hold it under his nose," the prince guided, motioning to Edvard with a nod. The mute did as he was instructed, and had his hand immediately assaulted by the horse. John saw the sea foam green eyes open a fraction, showing slight surprise.

Suddenly, Hans huffed out a snort, as if he was angry he hadn't already received a treat. Again, the prince put two cubes in the mute's hand, and he gave the cubes to the other horse. The small grin that was unique to him began to form on his face; his eyes still portrayed the intense focus he had as he tried to sponge all of the information he could. John was hesitant to suggest that they should start heading into town, but eventually he said so, using the excuse that he didn't want to spoil the horses.

John jumped up into the carriage. It was, again, humble, having no roof and was painted white with only small accents of gold. His guest got in too. Well, he more tripped in, not used to the structure of the carriage. The prince assumed that he'd had a bit of trouble with the stairs too, but John wouldn't bring it up. He'd had some scraps with stairs after his injury.

The ride was a silent affair; the prince would have tried to make conversation, as his royal manners had dictated, but his mysterious guest was again absorbed in trying to imprint every detail of the scenery. It was as if he'd never seen it before, and was in more than minor awe of it. Thus, John resolved to let him have fun, and instead focused in the reins in his hands and the road ahead.

At least, that's how he thought the trip would go.

How it really went was the mute had really observed every speck of landscape he could as it sped past, but he started to quickly lose interest. He leaned on the rail of the carriage and had started to tap his fingers on the rail of the carriage. He eyes gained a vacant stare; it was as if he couldn't take his lack of interest so much that he'd spirited himself away to somewhere else, somewhere deep inside his thoughts. John recognized these signs of utter disinterest as he kept glancing at the mute and then back at the road. He thought about any possibilities for conversation, but with the limitations of yes, no, and maybe answers, there wasn't much that could hold a conversation besides playing the question game. John had just about used up his stock of ice-breaker questions. He hadn't had a chance to replenish his repertoire in quite a while.

As an off-handed suggestion, John asked his guest if he'd like to try to drive the carriage.

Immediately the mute scrambled out of his position of ennui and eagerly nodded.

Of course, John just smiled and didn't give it a second thought. He handed the reins over and gave some directions as to how to control the horses, what each flick of the reins meant, et cetera.

Convinced he'd given enough of the basics, he sat back with his hands behind his head and let his guest have his fun.

~~~~~~

JESUS.

H.

CHRIST.

John thought he was going to have a heart attack, or at least get injured in a crash or SOMETHING.

His guest was handsome, but he couldn't drive for his life. Right when the reins were handed to him, he immediately whipped the horses into a full on gallop. The sudden whiplash caused the prince's head to fall back, hell, he almost fell out of the carriage. His guest had somehow navigated his way to town at high speed, almost tipping the carriage over at one point. The horses were now spurting out their breath, and were covered in a sheen of sweat as their chests shuddered with each huff.

Jesus Christ.

The culprit was standing beside John. He held himself as if everything had gone according to plan, but to the trained eye, one could see under that mask was a sheepish demeanor.

John had no idea when he'd gotten a "trained eye", but somehow, he'd learned some of the mute's mannerisms. He was always told he was good at reading emotion, especially when he was younger; now he wondered if he still had that ability after all that had happened.

The prince felt an indecisive hand placed on his back. Looking up, he saw his guest trying to do something like comfort him, but he seemed extremely out if his element. He was looking away from John, and was standing stock straight. He was glaring at a certain grain of dirt on the ground with all the concentration he could muster. A tinge of pink lit his cheeks.

With an airy, breathless laugh, John pushed himself up to standing straight. Immediately the hand was off of his person and placed behind the mute's back.

“We best get going,” he said, placing his own reassuring hand on the guest’s back. There was the minutest jump of surprise from him, but he was doing a good job at masking it.

The prince paused, briefly mourning the absence of the hand, before paid the owner of the stable they’d parked their carriage in. Everyone in the town always insisted that the prince shouldn’t have to pay for anything, but John insisted right back that he should have to pay like everyone else; who could say no to that? After thanking him, the prince and his guest continued onward through the town.              

This town was the one closest to the castle. The kingdom actually covered many towns, villages, and cities in its protection, but in all honesty, this one was the prince's favorite. It had homely local shops, where the vendors usually stayed in the second floor of the converted cottages their shops resided. The main road was laid cobblestone, all of neutral grays and browns. The cottages lined the main road; side streets modestly converged into the cobblestone and stretched off in their own direction to either more shops or homes. If one ventured far enough down one road, farms that supplied hoods for the Sunday market would be found.  

John explained all this to his guest, who seemed to be only half listening as he gathered more information on his own, again scanning the scenery with that calculated and absorbent gaze.

"Prince John, Prince John!"

Said prince abruptly stopped to find the source of the voice (the guest wandered a bit farther before turning around and coming back). It was coming from the bakery across the street. The head chef of the establishment, Francois Hollandaise, was calling his name with a look of distress. John made his way over quickly, his guest not far behind.

"What's the trouble, Monsieur Hollandaise?"

"Oui, Prince John, c'est terrible, just terrible," the chef said, a small son escaping him. "Ma petite chat, Gigi, she is gone!"

"Are you sure she's just not hiding somewhere?" Cats were a common pet in this town; they wandered around freely and came back to their respected homes at night.

"Non, non, non. Zis is different. She was 'ere in zi morning, but now she is gone, and je sais zat she is not coming back because I found zis next to 'er dish." With one hand the chef reached into his pocket and held out something in his clenched fist. He dropped it j to the prince's open palm with a grimace.

The prince matched that face when he saw what was in his hand. It was a small mouse toy made for cats, but that wasn't what gave John concern. Attached was a note that had the word "GONE" scribbled in sprawling handwriting as well as a black paw print in the corner.

"You see! My Gigi, she 'as been kidnapped!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple other odds and ends:  
> i. No, I did not steal the "I'm so sorry" mantra line from Doctor Who. I was totally unaware of it until my beta pointed it out.  
> ii. Just in case here's some translation: "je sais" = I know; "C'est" = it's; "Ma petite chat" = my small cat (can be endearing). I tried to keep the french to a minimum, but having been in AP French makes me assume people know certain phrases.  
> iii. Sorry for the format change on the fic. I know the past chapters have had indented paragraphs, but now ao3 doesn't like indents, so I guess we won't have any (much to my chagrin).  
> iv. I'm going back to short chapters. I know the long ones are nice, but I can update quicker when I have a goal of 3.5k words instead of 5k.  
> v. Bless all of you for taking your time to read this fic. I appreciate comments of any kind, as well as kudos and everything else, and every time I get a notification email about something my heart goes a-flutter with glee. Thank you for not giving up on this fic or me.


	6. On The Case and Eric

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More trigger warnings: mentions of abuse and evidence of it

It was so easy. _So_ painstakingly, mind numbingly easy.

              Sherlock had already deduced where to look first, what to do, and maybe even a couple suspects. He needed more evidence to make a prompt and valid deduction, though.

              He was about to turn to John to explain that they needed to ask the baker about any suspicious activity at his bakery, but then the realization of his own stupidity crashed down upon him.

              Of course he couldn't tell John that, he couldn't tell him *anything*. He mentally cursed himself for forgetting such a vital piece of information.

              How could he convey his message?

              Writing? No, that would be off limits. Morse code? No, that would take too long. Damn, there had to be something.

              While John continued to ask questions (of which Sherlock knew the answer to most of already), the mute looked down at his hands and had an epiphany.

              Of course, it was all so simple. Sherlock wasn't the best at it, but it would have to do.

              Sherlock placed his hand on John's shoulder and squeezed to get John's attention.

              "What is it?" John said, looking back at him over his shoulder.

              Sherlock proceeded to make a scribbling motion with his index finger in the middle of his other hand's palm. He hoped that John would get the message, and quickly. They were losing time.

              At first John seemed to draw a blank on what was trying to be conveyed. With a tinge of irritation, Sherlock tried to mime more thoroughly what he was trying to say. After a bit more staring and miming, John got it.         

              "Monsieur Hollandaise, could we please have some paper and something to write with?"

              "Oui! Mais oui, Prince John." Hollandaise ran back into his bakery as if his life depended on it. Based on how the chef was reacting about his cat, Sherlock deduced it probably did depend on it.

              "Sorry about that, I'm usually good at charades," John joked with a slight smirk.

              Sherlock smiled back. Even during a crime scene, the prince could still joke. He was liking him more already.

              The chef came running back with butcher paper in his hands and a rudimentary black crayon.

              "Desolée, it's all I 'ad," he said, handing them to the prince.

              "No, it's fine, great in fact," John said, handing the supplies to Sherlock.

              Scrutinizing the black, fragile-feeling crayon, he set to work. He first needed to communicate the suspicious activity question. He drew a rectangle , with a smaller one inside it. He was about to write the name of the bakery, but faltered when he realized that was no good. He quickly glanced at the establishment, noticing a black cat was on its sign (no surprises there). Sherlock struggled to copy the animal into the smaller rectangle, but he managed. Satisfied with the building, he tried to figure out how to convey "suspicious activity" with mediocre drawing abilities. He drew a stick figure with an angry look on his face, and then drew a question mark with an arrow pointing to the figure. He sighed inwardly, hoped it would make some form of sense, and held it out to John.

              John took it and examined it with a confused look, and gave Sherlock a questioning glance.

              Sherlock shrugged in response.

              John raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips at him before looking back at the drawing.

              "I think what he's asking is if anyone has been in front of your bakery lately?"

              Sherlock leaned over John to tap at the person on the paper with enthusiasm, then the question mark.

              "Any people in front of your bakery that seemed odd to you?"

              Sherlock tapped John's shoulder to signify a "yes" before assuming his position behind him.

              "Euh," Hollandaise replied, "I'm not sure. I am usually be'ind the counter most of zi day, but I can clearly see what iz outside from zi big windows zere." He pointed to the big glass windows that adorned the front of his shop. He stared at it for a moment, before suddenly snapping his fingers and exclaiming, "A-ha!"

              "What is it, Monsieur Hollandaise?" John asked.

              "Zere was someone looking a beet funneh outside my shop zis morning. A young man; 'e was tall and 'ad black 'air. 'e kept leaning on my windowz for a while before leaving. Zen, he would come right back. I remember 'ow much it frustrated me."

              John looked back at Sherlock, and Sherlock nodded back. That was all he needed.

              "Thank you, monsieur."

              "Oui, oui, it's no trouble," he said as he grabbed John's arm lightly, "But please: find my Gigi. She is my precious companion."

              "We're on the case, monsieur."

              "Merci. Merci beacuoup, Prince John." Hollandaise headed back into his bakery looking sad, yet slightly hopeful.               

              "Ok, where to next, Mr. Detective?"

              Sherlock grinned at the nickname as he thought of his next move. The black-haired teen seemed to be the most prime suspect, especially due to his odd behavior. Yet, that didn't mean it was him; more evidence was needed. First, where would someone keep a cat undetected? Second, how would one steal a cat undetected? Third, if not there to steal Gigi, why had the teen been there in the first place?

              The most obvious plan of action was to find this curious young man.

              Sherlock quickly scribbled out a circle with a black mop of hair on it, again putting an arrow with a question mark next to it.

              "So, we have to find the kid..." John said, after Sherlock handed the paper to him.

              Sherlock nodded and then raised his eyebrows, inquiring John about where to look.

              John understood, leading the detective back through the town into the alleys. The town wasn't known for its dark back alleys, but all towns had some. Despite the buildings being spaced out on Main Street, the whole town was not organized in this manner. The further away Sherlock and John got from Main Street, the closer and more weathered the buildings became. The weathering was from decades of sea salt on the breeze, Sherlock concluded; the proximity was most likely the cause of overpopulation in the past and maybe even now.

              "This is where most of the young kids hang out, especially in that open lot over there." John pointed to an overgrown space, much larger than any space in that part of the town. "There was a fire there that burned down the building that stood there. Now kids use it as an area to play or just hang around."

              Sherlock nodded and spotted a group of teens there right then. They were all sitting and seemed to be playing some sort of game, one that involved a bottle and kissing; immediately Sherlock abhorred the game. He pointed over to the group, signaling to John that maybe they would know where there suspect could be found.

              Nodding himself, the prince made his way over to the group with the detective not far behind.

              "Excuse me," John said, politely standing to the side of the group, hands behind his back.

              "Oh, shi-- It's the prince!" One of the boys of the group squeaked. Immediately all of the teens were up on their feet, as if in attention.  

              "No, no,. I'm not here for any trouble." John put his hands out in a display of non-dominance. "I just want to ask questions."

              "Wot kind of questions?" said the same boy. He seemed to be their leader; or maybe just the only one courageous enough to speak.

              "Just this: have you seen a boy, about your age, with black hair lately? He was seen hanging around the bakery today, and Mr. Hollandaise is upset about him loitering in front of his shop."

              Sherlock took note of the fact that John had not revealed the entire situation to the teens, only the parts that they needed to know. He jotted it down as another discovery about the prince: he had experience.

              "That would be Eric," a girl this time said. She was the shortest of the group, and from what Sherlock could also glean from just her appearance, as well as her tone of voice, she was also the town gossip.

              "How do you know it was him?" John said, crossing his arms, giving off a quizzical air.

           _Good, get as much as you can from her, John._ Sherlock's affection for John's intellect when it came to people was growing even more.

              "Oh, how could it not be?" the girl said, flapping her hands out, expressing how it was the most obvious thing in the world. "He's such a strange guy. Not to mention what he's going through lately." She leaned closer to John and began to whisper, as if no one else could hear her that way. "His mum died recently, and ever since his father keeps Eric cooped up in their house for as long as he can."

              "Annie, that's enough!" another girl shouted. "You're always getting into people's private business! It's so rude!"

              "Oh, come on, Emily, we _know_ you have a crush on the weirdo," Annie said, covering her mouth as she giggled.

              "I do not!" Emily cheeks were lobster red, her hands were balled at her sides, and she looked about ready to punch Annie.

              "Alright, yes, thank you, girls," John said as he got between the two of them. "Miss Emily was it?" he said, looking over to her, "Could I talk to you a bit more?"

              "Um..." She seemed to have lost all confidence then. "I suppose so?"

              "Fantastic. Here come over to where my friend is standing. He'd like a word with you as well."

              "Your friend?" The girl looked over John's shoulder to where Sherlock was. Finally he was going to be a part of the conversation and get over the tedium of listening to that Annie girl drabble about whatever popped into her head.

              As the two of them walked over, Sherlock observed Emily. She seemed to be of a frail, shy sort. Blonde, pale, skinny enough that her limbs looked breakable. Yet, there was a fire that seemed to be inside her; a sort of affection that reminded him of someone from back home in Atlantica. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he then realized he missed that person somehow, and maybe even took them for granted.

              "This is my guest from back at the palace. I'm showing him around town and he would like to get to know as many people as possible." John motioned toward Sherlock, and the detective mustered his most charismatic smile (despite cringing inwardly) as he stuck his hand out.

              "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir." Emily said, as she delicately took Sherlock hand and shook it.

              Sherlock showed the picture he'd drawn earlier and pointed to the black hair.

              "He would like to know more about this Eric friend of yours," John translated.

              "Can he not speak?" Emily asked, giving a slightly awed look at Sherlock.

              "I am afraid not," John replied.

              "Oh, that's such a shame," Emily said, giving a look of sympathy toward Sherlock.

              "It is indeed, but he gets on."

              "Oh really? He communicates with pictures?" Emily had begun focusing her attention on John.

              "Yes, and by playing charades occasionally."

              "That's a bit silly, but I guess that's how it --"

              Sherlock shoved himself in between them, breaking the conversation, and shot a glare at John. He then shoved the paper into John's face and shook it around. _This is no time for chit chat, we have a CASE._

              John shot his own glare back and said, "What my friend is trying to say is that we should really get back to Eric. From what that girl said back there, it doesn't seem like he's having an easy time."

              "Oh yes, Eric..." Emily's whole demeanor changed as they got back on the subject of him. "He's my neighbor, and our mother's used to get along splendidly." She began to wring her hands. "Of course, with that type of connection, Eric and I became friends immediately. He's such a good boy and funny too. We would talk about everything, and it was wonderful." A look of sorrow had begun to plague her features, "But then his mother died, and his father shut him up in the house. He doesn't get out much anymore, and when he does he doesn't want to talk to me, or anyone, for that matter." Emily suddenly looked at Sherlock; her eyes were glassy, "Please, find him. I'm sure he's done nothing wrong; he's such a sweet person, and I can't imagine he'd do anything bad."

              "Thank you, Miss Emily." John said, bowing his head slightly. "We'll be sure to introduce my friend to Eric, and it was a pleasure talking with you."

              "Thank you, Prince John." She curtsied and headed back over to her group of friends.

              Sherlock could hear them jeering at her as he and John made it back onto main street. Suddenly, John stopped and turned around to face the detective.

              "You know, you could stand to be a bit more polite," John said with a slightly annoyed look. "I was just trying to make that girl more comfortable. She wouldn't have said anything if we'd just asked her about Eric on the spot and nothing else." He gave a huff, satisfied with himself. "Now, where to next?"

              Sherlock gave his own sigh as he pieced together what to do.

              For starters, the detective now had more background on their prime suspect. The loss combined with the abuse could have triggered something in the boy; maybe all he longed for was companionship. Sherlock couldn't be sure.

_Humans are so fragile._

              Sherlock glanced back over at his "prime specimen." He was conversing with a woman who owned a flower shop down the road. The detective knew that being a leader meant having good people skills, but he could never master the stuff. It was always so monotonous and boring. People never saw what he saw, understood why he saw what he did, nor what the point of seeing that was in the first place.  It frustrated him how people could go on about their day and not just absorb and understand.

              Yet with John it was different.

              Of course, he didn't absorb like Sherlock did, oh, no. Sometimes he was quite opaque on some matters, but what set him apart was that he _tried_ to understand. He made the effort to get what Sherlock was talking about. He was curious; on the beach he proved that he wanted to know how Sherlock came to his conclusions. How the detective longed to discuss _everything_ with him. How one grain of sand could tip a whole murder case, or why even the most microscopic of details could prove useful.

              Sherlock caught himself in his whirlwind of processes when John came back over to him, probably to bring news.

              "That was Mrs. Jones over there. She said she'd seen Eric back at the barn just recently." John licked his lips and looked at Sherlock expectantly. "Shall we go?"

              Sherlock nodded.

              As the duo made their way down Main Street and onward toward the more rural part of town, the detective was once again plunged into his own thoughts.

              He recognized his feelings for John; they were far from normal, and were different from any others he had experienced previously. Somehow, though, they confused him as well. For all of the knowledge in his mind palace, Sherlock was left with an empty attic when it came to what to do with John. Why was he experiencing this difference? His mind wandered back to his previous hypothesis that it was due to his transformation, but he quickly scrapped the idea. These emotions weren't a precipitate of that; he'd felt this way when he rescued the prince from his death. What was it then? The only time he'd ever felt anything close to this type of affection was with Mrs. Hudson, and even then it still wasn't the same. He didn't get nervous when Mrs. Hudson looked at him a certain way, nor did a simple touch send sparks along his nerves. Only John was capable of causing such phenomena in Sherlock.

              The detective wanted to rip his hair out in frustration of the fact that he knew not how to handle the emotional conundrum that John had given him.

              "We're here."

              Again, Sherlock was ripped out of his musings by that voice. He hadn't realized he'd followed John all the way to the barn until he looked up to see its deteriorating structure and peeling red paint.

              "Shall we take a look?" John asked, hand on the door.

              As an answer, Sherlock pushed open the other door himself. As John followed him inside, Sherlock took in the new environment.

              Like all barns, it was dank with the smell of hay. Dust particles flitted about in the beams of light that came through the gaps in the paneling of the roof. The floor was hard packed dirt, and was covered in hay. To the left and right were stables that seemed to have aged from disuse. Rust coated the locks on the doors; the paint along their sides was either peeling or had weathered off completely. At the other side of the barn was a loft that housed various bales of hay. From there, the sound of mewling could be heard.

              Sherlock made a motion for John to follow him over to the ladder that lead up to the loft. The soldier nodded to show he understood. Quietly and quickly, the duo made their way over to the loft, careful to stay out of sight in case someone was up there. Sherlock went up first, John close behind. They crouched in order to avoid the roof of the barn that was only a few feet above their heads. They made their way around the bales to discover the source of the mewing.

              Sherlock deduced the cat was Gigi immediately from what he could gather. He also deduced from the black mop of hair that the boy lying next to the cat was Eric. Other than that there wasn't much the detective to glean.

              Eric's face was transfigured by numerous bruises, one being a black eye. Two streaks from his nose, long since coagulated, indicated a bloody nose. His left arm was broken, judging from the angle it was in. Cuts also littered his body, especially around his legs, with a few deeper gashes at the knees.

              Immediately John was at the boy’s side, examining him. Typical caretaker attitude; he must have picked up a few things from hanging around the medics in his army.

              "Jesus Christ, how did he even get up here? He must have collapsed right when he managed." John felt the boy's forehead. "He's also got a fever. Shit, who could do this?"

              Sherlock here would have provided, "The abusive father, obviously." He settled for drawing a family tree, the symbols for male and female, and pointing an arrow towards the male. He showed it to John and watched as the prince's face contorted with rage.

              "Dammit." He went back to checking over his patient, and after a couple more proddings, finally looked back and as Sherlock and said, "We have to get him out of here and back to the palace."

              Nodding, Sherlock made his way back over to the ladder and went down it. John came down slowly, having Eric on his back. Once in reach, Sherlock gingerly took the boy into his arms to let John make his way down safely. They were about to leave when another meow echoed through the barn.

              Sherlock looked at John, inquiring what to do.

              "You get him to the carriage. I'll go get the cat."

              Nodding, Sherlock bolted out of the barn, being careful not to aggravate Eric's injuries further. The detective managed to avoid all the curious citizens of the village by not answering their inquiries (he couldn't anyway) and not stopping once. When he finally reached the place where their horses and carriage was stored, he circled around the back towards the stables, not bothering with the caretaker. He found their transport easily, as Hans and Edvard were still hooked up to it and it was just sitting under the sheltered roof. He got into the carriage and settled in it with Eric in his lap, still cradled in his arms.

              Just then a moan came from the boy, and he opened his eyes for the first time.

              "Where am I?" he said, "Where's Gigi? Who're you?" He was clearly in a daze, perhaps even delirious from the fever. Suddenly his eyes grew wider and he started struggling frantically.

              "Where's my father? Is he with you? Is he here right now?!" More and more questions tumbled out of his mouth as his panic started to mount to hysteria. Sherlock tightened his grip on Eric and also put a reassuring hand on his cheek. He looked into the boys blue eyes and noted the emotions erupting behind them. Pain, despair, suffering, most prominently fear. The detective gave a sharp shake of his head, hoping to dissociate himself from Eric's father as much as possible.

              "Oh," Eric said, his breathing beginning to even. He then deflated, his barriers lowering, as well as his strength depleting. He curled into Sherlock-- for warmth or protection, the detective couldn't decipher. From then on he was quiet, simply staring straight ahead at nothing.

              The two stayed like that, both lost in their own thoughts until John returned. He told them he had given Gigi back to Mounsier Hollandaise (hearing that Eric seemed to grow more somber). Sherlock was about to take the reins when John put his hand over the detective's and insisted that he drive.

              "You just take care of Eric."

              The trip back to the palace was quiet. Once they arrived John got out immediately to go fetch a proper doctor. Sherlock and Eric were alone again.

              "Don't give me back to him."

              Sherlock looked down to see Eric looking back up at him with pleading eyes, his good hand clutching Sherlock's scarf.

              "Please."

              Sherlock nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. So the tabbing worked on this chapter (?) AO3, you are giving me a headache.  
> ii. Oh boy, more new characters. Yes, it's Eric as in Prince Eric, because I felt like it. We're going to explore more about him as well as his father in the next chapter.  
> iii. Again, thank you for reading! Constructive criticism, reactions, any comments are appreciated. Don't be afraid to tell me what you think.


	7. Love Already and Cheating

John paced.

  
And paced.

  
And paced.

  
And paced.

  
Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, until Mike stopped him and made him sit down.

  
He was just so furious with what had happened to Eric. Why hadn't anyone noticed? Why hadn't someone, maybe even Eric, gone to the public authorities? How long had this been going on? How had it gotten so extreme? How, how, HOW?

  
John wanted to stand up, throw something, maybe break something, _anything_ to help vent his rage at this injustice. He instead gritted his teeth and drummed his fingers on the chair's arm. He then looked over at his observant new friend.   
The detective was sitting on the chair slightly beside John, legs crossed, fingers tented, that same pensive look adorned on his face. The prince wondered about what he was thinking about. What went on in that head of his? John really wished to know; anything to keep him from smashing a family heirloom.

  
"What are you thinking about?" John asked, breaking the silence.

  
The response wasn't immediate. It was only after about a minute that the man made a motion to the door that lead into the room Eric was being kept in. It hadn't opened since the teen was rushed in there for emergency care. That had John on edge. 

"Ah, yeah. It's..." John seemed at loss for an adjective to express all the pent up anger that was broiling inside him, licking at his insides. "...Terrible." He grimaced  at the inadequacy.

There was a slight nod, then a readjustment of legs as the detective crossed his legs again, his feet never touching the ground.

  
Thus the silence resumed.

  
John opened his mouth to try and break it when the opening of the door saved him the trouble.

  
"He's going to be fine," said one of the resident doctors of the palace. "He needs time to rest and recover, but there shouldn't be any lasting damage physically..." The doctor then rung his hands before continuing, "Mentally.... Well one never knows."

  
John half smiled. At least there was some good news. He stood , thanked the doctor, and helped him on his way back to his living quarters. As he closed the door that lead to the main foyer of the palace, he leaned his back on the door, contemplating what to do next. There was Eric to take care of, not to mention taking care of the boy's father. There was also the issue of finding out it anything else like this had happened, and why hadn't anyone reported it?

  
"John, why don't you take your guest and go somewhere."

  
The prince looked up to find his butler giving him a stern look; he hadn't even noticed that Mike had gotten so close to him, let alone had come back into the room. He was too lost in the turmoil of his thoughts.

  
"The lake would be a good choice." Mike gave a small smile. He did always know best.

  
"Sure -- Yeah, that's a good idea," John said, nodding stoically. He was still angry, but now he honestly felt a bit detached, maybe lost. The adrenaline and rage he'd had all pent up inside him had been mostly spent, taking away any shock he could have felt. He looked up to see his guest standing. His eyes were eager. His hands were behind his back, but the slight twitches of his arms revealed his fidgeting hands. The prince smiled at that; he appreciated the infectious enthusiasm. "Shall we?"

  
With a nod, the duo was off to the lake. It wasn't far, just a bit off of the castle grounds. They both got into the row boat tied to the dock: John at the oars, the detective opposite. With a rock, they were off into the middle of the lake. After a brief quiet of conversation, the sounds of the oars cutting the water filling the silence, John stopped the row boat at the lake's center.

  
"You know, with all the commotion going on this past day, and me forgetting my manners, I never asked your name." John placed his hands in his lap and wrung them slightly, not wanting to make eye contact after pointing out such a blunder. "I know you can't speak, so I'll try and guess your name."

  
The look his passenger made was a mix of awkwardness and skepticism.

  
"Now, don't look at me like that. I can do it." The hands stopped wringing, instead putting them on his knees. John squinted a tad, as if the brunette hair, the color of those eyes, anything in that facade would give away the name.

  
"Hmmmm. Is it James?"

  
A shake of the head.

  
"Oliver?"

  
Another shake.

  
"Hn." John rubbed the back of his head for a bit. "How about Sherringford?"

  
A look of disgust.

  
John let out a slight laugh, "Sorry to offend. At least you're not stuck with Hamish." The prince began to look around, trying to find different answers in the aquamarine water, or in the birds that floated along the surface, or maybe the cat tails that framed the lake. Just then John heard something, a whisper on the wind. It gave a name. John thought he was probably hearing things, but he was getting no where on his own.

"Is it Sherlock?"

This time his guest perked up, a wide smile gracing his features.

"That's it? Sherlock?"

 

A vigorous nod.

"That's a fine name. I'm glad I know it now. Here, let's start over." John extended his hand and said, "Hello, my name is John, what is yours?"

Sherlock mouthed his name and shook the hand. 

"It's very nice to meet you Sherlock." John smiled. Their hands lingered together, but the prince didn't make a move to separate them, and neither did Sherlock. In fact he had started to lean closer. John looked into his eyes, lost in their pools of color that seemed ever-changing. He didn't know how he'd come to feel this way about someone he'd only known for two days, but there was something different between them. There was a certain bond he shared with Sherlock that he couldn't quite place, like the familiarity he'd felt when they'd first met. As they got even closer, the detective closed his eyes; John did the same as he waited for the kiss.

Instead, all he got was his stomach flipping as their boat tipped and fell into the water. John closed his mouth on impulse and quickly resurfaced. When he did he looked around for Sherlock, and found him swimming beside him, but he seemed to be having some trouble. John grabbed their now-capsized row boat and dragged it over so his guest could have something to hold onto.

They paused as they looked at each other and then laughed.

As John started to laugh harder as they both held onto their boat, he noticed that his leg wasn't bothering him at all, which made him all the happier.

"Well, we best be getting back." Sherlock agreed as they both swam back to shore, John towing the boat, and Sherlock swimming back on his own (he seemed to have gotten the hang of swimming). When they got back, after docking the boat, the prince grabbed the his guest's hand and said, "Come on, I bet there's a fire going."

~~~~~~

"Come on, I bet there's a fire going," Moriarty mocked. He growled before letting out a yell of rage as he smacked the water he was using to spy, causing the image of his contractor and the prince already holding hands and making goo-goo eyes at each other to be destroyed. "That was too close! If my agents weren't there to ruin the moment--" He let out another bellow of anger. "How can they be this far along?! It hasn't even been three days!" The sea-warlock huffed as he started to pace around the cauldron.

"He did save the prince's life," Irene interjected from her corner of the room, the corner farthest from Moriarty.

"Oh of course he did. And of  _course_  he was 'the one' for our little prince from the beginning."He stopped pacing, went back to the lip of the cauldron, and began swirling the water with his finger. An image of John's stoic military face formed in curls of yellow smoke.

"What makes you tick, Mr. Perfect?" The warlock glared at the image briefly, before he cupped the smoke face with his hand. "What can I do to you?" He swiped the smoke as he began to form a plan, making it disappear. He sidled over to the cabinet and began throwing bottles of all shapes, sizes, and colors into the cauldron.

"You have a plan?" Irene said, moving closer.

"You better believe it, hun." He chucked the last bottle with more vigor, causing it to puff red smoke up from the mouth of the cauldron. He went over and circled his hands around the spell, making it stir. "I am going to screw with his contract, and you're going to help me." He looked at Irene with a conniving smile, but she felt the chill of calculating eyes prodding her, assessing her worth for the time being. 

"And how exactly will you do that?" Crossing her arms, she went closer to the cauldron, but still kept her distance from Moriarty.

"Well," he said, lilting the "L" longer than usual, "You're going to go up there and, quite literally, screw with the contract." He let out a slight giggle before he started to stir the spell for Irene. "You're going to change into a guy and take Sherlock's voice with you. You'll charm even Prince Charming."

  
"That's why you took his voice: not for the challenge, but for in case this happened." Irene stated, a tad astonished at such perception. Then again, it was Moriarty.

"Eh, a little bit of both. Comme ci, comme ca." Shrugging slightly, Moriarty continued to stir until the red and blue swirls fused into a deep shade of purple. "Done!" he said, clapping his hands together. "You ready?" He whipped his head up looking for Irene's answer. She could see the fire in his eyes. He was sure he was going to win. He needed to win. Any other outcome would be catastrophic.

"Do it."

" _Excellent_. I knew you would come through for me." Picking up the potion with cupped hands, the sea-warlock blew on the potion until dark bubbles began to float up towards Irene. The small bubbles began to morph together as they came closer, then they touched her skin. 

The burning was awful, almost as worse as the first time, the time that bound her to Moriarty. The dark liquid started to creep long her limbs, transforming their musculature and splitting her tail as it speed to the gills that let her breathe. It clogged them, leaving her unable to breathe. She struggled as she could feel it infect her face and cause it to contort. A wider and more defined jaw. A longer nose. Thicker eyebrows. She knew she only had minutes to live before her now human lungs gave out.

  
Suddenly a bubble of air encircled her head and the purple liquid evaporated. Surprised, she looked up to see Moriarty surveying his work. Experimentally she flexed her new thicker hands, then wiggled her toes now resting on the cave bottom. She could feel the granules of sand wedging themselves in between her new toes, but she didn't care as curiosity at this new experience filled her with joy she hadn't felt in years. She also was fascinated by humans, just like the prince whose life she was about to destroy. Regret gripped her heart then, if she had a choice she would have never wanted to cause real harm to him, but when it came to Moriarty the only choice was his to decide.

  
"You look fabulous!" Moriarty said, arms spread wide. "Not a bad job if I do say so myself." With a satisfied smile, he then stated, "Now, to business. You're now Ivan. You're going to make John love you. Make him completely forget about Sherlock, keep them away from each other as much as you can. You're new voice graciously given to us by the prince himself will have a little charm on it. It will put John into a trance and slowly wipe John's memories of Sherlock. Your job it to fill the gap that Sherlock leaves. Kapice?"

  
Ivan nodded.

  
"Wonderful." Moriarty sailed over to the cabinet to retrieve the shell that held Sherlock's voice. Chanting an incantation, he coaxed green smoke out of it, and the detective's voice started to echo throughout the cave. The smoke slithered out of the shell then into Ivan's mouth. Surprisingly this spell did not hurt, in fact it felt like there was a gentle warmth resonating in his throat as he coughed.

  
"Oh, and one more thing," the warlock said, holding up one finger before running it down the empty shell. "Make sure that when Sherlock's contract ends, tell him he must kill John to save himself. That is all I'll except after his deal is broken."  
"But isn't that breaching the contract?" Ivan said, feeling odd having Sherlock's baritone come out of his mouth.

  
"Ah, one would think so, but there is a _clause_." Moriarty made the contract appear and kissed the paper. Turning it to Ivan, he began to see more words appear under Sherlock's signature. "Magic invisible ink. I make it myself. It says here that if Sherlock doesn't hold up his end of the bargain and get the kiss, a life sacrifice must be made."

  
Ivan wanted to recoil at the utter sleaziness of the warlock that he somehow already knew existed, but still was surprised when he saw it in person. He looked at the garden of the writhing beings of his previous contractors. This was his scheme every time. He would seem honest in his intentions, payment for payment, but he would then secretly add a clause to the price, making it almost impossible to meet. 

"So, are we clear?"

"Crystal."

Moriarty giggled. "See you in a couple days. Hopefully with a corpse." Snapping his fingers, Moriarty Sebastian and another eel to carry Ivan to the surface. Ivan grimaced as he was forcefully dragged to the beach. Breaking the surface, the eels, with surprising strength, flung Ivan onto the sand and disappeared. Disoriented, he looked around. He spotted the castle immediately, but didn't make his way toward it. He first had to settle the pit in his stomach that felt like it was eating away at itself. Every part of this plan was disgusting, and made him want to vomit, but it had to be done. Moriarty would have his head otherwise.

  
Wobbling on his two legs, Ivan got the hang of walking after much tripping and falling face down into the sand. Searching for a way to cover himself, he happened upon a discarded ship sail. It was in tatters but it was still better than nothing. Tying it around his waist, he made his way toward the castle, the pit still growing.


	8. The Palace's Newcomer, and Invader

After Sherlock and John had returned to castle and warmed themselves by fire, Eric woke up.

  
Sherlock was quick to make his way into the room, and John was hot on his heels. Eric was sitting up in his bed, his expression a mix of confusion and relief. The bruises were starting to heal, and his arm was in a sling. His eye was still swelling, but it had dulled from its angry purple.

John had to reel Sherlock back from his myriad of muted questions and sat him down in a chair close to the bed. Then he knelt next to the bed and asked Eric if he was okay.  
"

Yes... I mean it hurts, but I'm used to it by now," he glumly supplied.

John's mouth drew into a thin grimace. Looking back at his companion his face showed no change, but his hands where gripping his knees tightly as one bounced impatiently. "I don't want that answer, Eric." He looked into the boy's blue eyes, already starting to gloss. "I want the real one." He put his hand on Eric's knee underneath the sheets as the boy started to cry.

  
"Then... Then, no, I'm not okay," he sobbed, his good hand balling the sheets in a fist. "It always hurts, but I never told anyone and it just got worse, but I still didn't say anything because I thought something would change. He would sometimes say he loved me and h-he would apologize and I would think, 'This is it. It's going to stop.'" A strong sob racked his frame along with a string of coughs. John took the balled up fist in his hand and began stroking it with his thumb. "But it didn't, and I hate him." Eric closed his mouth tightly, trying to stop for sobs from escaping as tears ran down his face and snot had trickled down to his lips.

  
"Eric," John said, squeezing the boy's hand, "You're _never_  going back to him. I won't let that happen."

  
A small sob came from Eric as he looked down, more tears coming down and pattering onto the white sheets. Withdrawing his hand, John then placed it on Eric's back and made small circle motions. After more escaped sobs and coughs, he calmed down to a couple sniffles and a few tears clinging to his eyelashes.

  
"Better?" the prince asked. The boy nodded. With a smile, John said, "Good." Standing up and giving Eric's shoulder a reassuring pat, he said, "Then I have a proposition for you."

  
Eric's head shot up, eyes, still red, but full of curiosity.

  
"Would you like to live in the palace instead?"

  
There was a pause where the boy sat there in awe. Finally, he replied, "C-can I?"

  
"I don't see why not. In fact," John turned and called his butler's name down the door. Quick as ever, Mike was there, arms behind his back.

  
"Yes, sir?" he asked.

  
"Haven't you been looking for an apprentice?"

  
"Well," he said, rolling his eyes to look at Eric, then giving him a wink and a smile, "The position is open."

  
"Really?" Eric exclaimed.

  
"You seem like the perfect lad for the job," Mike said, his smile growing wider.

  
"I'd be honored to!" Eric looked to John and gave him a mock salute.

  
John laughed and gave one back to him. "Then it's settled!" He started out the door and motioned Sherlock to follow him. "Mike could you get Eric some food while I sort some things out?"

  
"Yes, your highness," Mike said, closing the door behind the two. 

Once he knew he was out of earshot of Eric, John slammed his fist on one of the armchairs in the study, making a loud thudding noise. He growled as he flexed his fingers and whirled around to look at Sherlock.

"I want to wring that father's neck and break it. How could anyone treat their child that way, _no one_ deserves that." Letting out a sigh he put his hand on his face and dragged it down. "I just--I can't--." He looked at his companion. He stood there, staring at the prince with his hands in his pockets. Then he took one out and hesitantly placed it on John's shoulder. He then rubbed back and forth a bit before patting it and leaving it there. A strong hand to ground him. The prince placed a hand over Sherlock's and squeezed.

  
"Thanks... I just get so wrapped up in things like these." He took Sherlock's hand from his shoulder and held it in both of his. "I'm glad... I'm really glad actually, that I met you Sherlock." He looked into the detective's eyes. This time they were more turquoise than before. He watched as the firelight from behind him danced in his companion's eyes as they flitted about, as if he was trying to study every detail of the prince's eyes. They held each other's gazes for a bit longer before Mike quietly came out of the room and passingly mentioned that it was getting late, startling the both of them.

  
Immediately John let go of Sherlock's hand and the detective jammed it back into his coat pocket. They both tried to not look in each other's direction this time.

  
Mike gave a little chuckle before saying, "Do you need me to lead you to your room mister..."

  
"Sherlock," John supplied, "Sherlock is his name."  
"Well, the mystery is solved," the butler said. "How did you manage to find that out?"

  
"We had a bit of a guessing game," John answered, rubbing the back of his head.

  
"A guessing game? How on earth did you manage to find out his name out of all the ones in the world?"

  
"Just luck, I guess."

  
"Luck indeed," Mike said with disbelief. "Well, Mister Sherlock, it's very nice to meet you properly," he stuck out his hand and Sherlock took it. "Do you need me to lead you to your room?"

Sherlock shook his head.

  
"My, you catch on fast. It usually takes people more than a couple days to figure out where everything is in this big castle."

  
Sherlock cracked a smile as he headed out the door. He gave them a short wave before he exited and headed upstairs.

  
It left John in a state of awe that Sherlock knew where everything was. He remembered getting lost in the castle when he was younger. Then again he had shown his intellect earlier today. Still, he couldn't shake how brilliant he thought the detective was.

"Will you be needing your cane for your walk sir?" Mike asked.

Just then John realized that entire day he'd forgotten his cane. He'd left it here at the beginning of the day. Even now he didn't feel that usual ache that made him limp. It was incredible.

  
"Actually, I won't today, Mike, thanks." The two exchanged smiles as John strode out of the room and went out through the main doors and made his way to the beach.

  
The stars twinkled with more fervor and the moon was nearly full. Both illuminated the tides of the ocean with bright white light that danced as the water moved. The air, though salty, felt amazing on John's skin. He took his shoes off as he usually did for these walks and left them by a large rock near the path back to the palace. He sank his toes in, burying them in the cold sand with a satisfied sigh. He looked into the sky, noting all the constellations he'd learned for navigation over the years. The north star was shining particularly brighter than the rest.

  
He couldn't help but realize how much Sherlock made him forget. Forget his leg, his status, maybe even sometimes his past. It felt like all there was to do was to run and leave caution to the wind and he loved it. It had only been a few days, but this man that had washed up on shore had changed so much of him. Where he came from, John didn't care. He was just grateful that he'd come there in the first place, and he realized now that he didn't want to lose that anytime soon. He couldn't even remember what life was like without the detective dragging him around the kingdom, solving mysteries, being curious and enthralled with everything, and hanging on his every word whether he was talking about horses or kings-people. As he looked up at the moon again, felt the ocean lap at his feet, and tasted the salt in the air, he made a decision. He was going to ask Sherlock to stay. For longer or permanently, he didn't know, but he knew in that moment he needed him to be there at his side.

  
"You must be the prince," said a voice behind him.

  
John's eyes widened. Where had he heard that voice? It sounded so familiar. He whirled around to see its source.

  
Standing there was a man, a bit taller than he was, with piercing eyes staring right into what felt like was his very being. "Who are you?" the prince demanded, standing up a bit straighter.

  
"You don't remember?" That _voice_ , he knew he heard it from somewhere. The man gave a pout before slinking closer to John. He tried to back away, but he was cornered by the ocean, and he could't dart away. It felt like his feet had been rooted to the ground, almost as if they were numb. As the man got even closer, John could feel more of his body lose feeling. His legs, his hands, his arms, it was like he was being slowly petrified. The strange man place a hand right over the prince's rapidly beating heart, and leaned in to whisper, "I'm your savior."

  
In that moment he could feel his mind beginning to blur and fade, he wanted to panic, but couldn't muster the energy. It was like he was sinking, but also being wrapped into a warm blanket. "My savior," he whispered.

  
"Yes," Irene, now under the guise of Ivan, said in Sherlock's voice.

  
~~~~~

  
Sherlock burst in the room with a new found enthusiasm. He was _so_  close, he could feel it in the pit of his stomach that was all in knots in that moment. He didn't care. He felt like he could swim thousands of leagues, run thousands of miles, like nothing was in his way. Maybe his new body was making him more human, maybe softer, but it didn't matter. Someone cared about him, and he _cared back_. This was new territory that Sherlock had never experienced, at least not this strongly. It was so fascinating and compelling to know more. Maybe even after the contract ended, Sherlock would stay anyway. Maybe he could just give up being a prince, give up being a detective in Atlantica, give it all up to live in this new and unknown part of the world. Maybe it would be for the better. Maybe this had what he wanted all along. Maybe--

  
He stopped himself suddenly, which was like stopping a killer whale from getting a seal. What was he doing? What had he become? His mind was going in so many directions that even he couldn't keep up with it. His palace was a mess, except for the one new room, John's. It was immaculate, and so large that it could fill up enough memories to last a lifetime. Other parts had been long forgotten, despite it only have being a few days. He sank down onto the bed, putting his head in his hands. He felt like he was losing control of part of himself, but was that so bad? He felt torn between the role of the cold, apathetic prince and these new feelings that were manifesting themselves into a role Sherlock had never played. The future was so clouded with uncertainty, and it frightened him. He'd always felt he was at least two steps ahead, but now he felt like he fell off that path all together.

  
He unbuttoned his shirt, throwing it in the direction of the wardrobe. He took off his pants and did the same before flopping back onto the bed, hearing a surprised, "Oh!" from the pillows. Looking to the right he saw Mrs. Hudson scuttle out from under the array of pillows that were at the top of his bed.

  
"Good evening, dear! You gave me quite a scare there. How about a little warning next time?" she asked with a smile.

  
Sherlock gave a weak smile back before it feel back into a frown and he stared up at the ceiling.

  
"What ever is the matter?" Mrs. Hudson asked, crawling close to Sherlock's face before poking it. "Come on, now. No secrets."

  
Sherlock then sat up, trying not to disturb the bed too much, and then picked up the crab and cradled her in his hands.

  
Mrs. Hudson studied his face before saying, "You love him, don't you?"

  
Sherlock gave a meek nod, not meeting Mrs. Hudson's gaze.

  
"Oh dear, I'd already figured out that much."

  
That got a stronger grin out of the prince. Mrs. Hudson: observant as always.

  
"You want to stay... is that right?"

  
Another nod.

  
"Oh, Sherlock..." Mrs. Hudson took one of her wards thumbs in her claw and gave a gentle squeeze. She composed herself before saying, "You know that I'll miss you. Even your brother and the guard, and even other people in Atlantica will miss you."  
This time Sherlock did meet her gaze. Her eyes were glassed over, her lip quivering slightly. She let go of his thumb before she continued.

  
"But, if this is what you really want, I can talk to your brother. Also expect me to visit very, very frequently."

  
Sherlock could feel the burn of his own tears sting his eyes. There he went again, his human side was taking over. He brought Mrs. Hudson up to his lips and kissed her. She smiled back at him as he lowered her back onto the sheets and she crawled out of his hands. He laid back down on the pillows and stared back up at the ceiling, tracing the patterns in the ornate patterns painted onto it. Even if the future was full of something Sherlock wasn't familiar with, he knew there was one constant that he'd never let go, and that was John. The detective would always be by his side, no matter what.

~~~~~

  
Ivan had escorted John back to the palace and had asked him to go back to his room and sleep for the night. He complied immediately and wandered up the stairs as if in a daze and down the hall. Ivan also met with the butler, telling him that he needed to stay the night and had permission for the prince. The butler was more than happy to oblige, complaining that the castle had to many empty rooms these days. They both headed down another hall that lead to an array of guest rooms. Mike gave the new guest the first, telling him the servants would be informed of his arrival tomorrow and would be ready to fulfill any needs he would have in the morning. Ivan thanked him and closed the door quietly. He turned around to take in the room.

  
There was a large poster bed in the corner, an armoire in the opposite corner next to a doorway to a large bathroom. He went over to the beside table where a carafe of water along with a bowl and a cloth were sitting. It was meant for quick washing in the morning, but he had other plans for it. Pouring water into the bowl, he recited an incantation Moriarty had taught him to get in touch. The water started to boil and swirl until the warlock's face appeared with a puff of steam.

  
"Ah, don't you look dashing," he said with a smirk. "Liking the new body?"

  
"It's nice to say the least."

  
"Eeeeexcellent. And how's our little prince faring."

  
"The spell was successful. I'm in complete control." He smiled. It was nice to get to say that for once.

  
"Fantastic. Now, you have to stall the kiss for five more days." Moriarty gave an exasperated sigh, "I shouldn't have given that pompous prince an extension. Really should've stayed with the classic three, but alas, I'm a man of my word." He giggled then continued, "Do whatever it takes to keep them away from each other, and be by John's side as much as possible. I don't know how strong this love of their's is, but it seems to be reaching disgustingly high levels in such a short period. Sherly could break the spell if he tries hard enough, so be on the look out."

  
"I'll do my best."

  
"No, you'll do better," he growled. "You should know what I expect by now, _Ivan_ ,"

  
"Y-yes, sir," he stammered out.

  
"Good." With another grin, the warlock said, "Tah," and disappeared from the water. 


	9. Friends and Disappearances

Sherlock woke up at first blearily, then with new energy as he remembered the events of yesterday. He jumped out of bed and got ready to start the third day of the contract. He didn't even need the seven days he was given; he was already so close. He buttoned up his shirt, somehow not missing any despite how fast he was going. He plopped back down on the bed and noticed Mrs. Hudson by his side with a smile on her face.

  
"Well, isn't someone excited today?"

  
Sherlock smiled back at her before bounding back up and starting out the door to the foyer. He wondered where they would go today. Back to the town? Maybe into the fields they passed yesterday? Back on the beach? To somewhere totally new? He was bubbling with excitement at what adventure he would have next with John. He'd started to feel a warmth from him yesterday that he really couldn't explain, and now any task, no matter how menial, was enjoyable if John was there. He knew the prince felt the same way, especially after last night. He was sauntering down toward the foot of the stairs when he heard voices coming from the foyer. He slowed and leaned against a pillar close to the stairs eavesdrop.

  
"What breakfast would you both fancy today?" said Mike.

  
"Whatever Ivan wants is fine with me," John said, but it was more monotone that his normal vernacular. Odd and concerning. Sherlock filed that away.

  
"Oh, eggs and toast would be perfectly fine with me," said the new person, Ivan. There was something about his voice; something that made his stomach sink. He listened closely for this newcomer to speak again.

  
"That would be great," said John.

  
"Alright, I'll have the chefs whip it up right away," the butler said. Then his footsteps echoed out of the foyer down another hallway.

  
This time Sherlock waited, barely breathing so he could hear the voice as clearly as possible.

  
"Your butler is quite the gentleman," Ivan said, and suddenly it clicked.

  
Sherlock could continue to hear them both chatter with small talk, soon fading as the two headed down the same hall Mike had used, but the detective was too in shock to follow them. He was in shock, heavily leaning against the pillar for support. That couldn't be anyone else's voice, that was _his_. He felt nauseated as he sank to the floor. How could someone have his voice? It had to have been Moriarty. He was playing dirty. Sherlock chided himself for ever agreeing to the contract in the first place. How could he not have foreseen the warlock cheating, of course he would have. But why was he doing this? It couldn't be Moriarty himself down there, no, it had to be a foot soldier. Some pawn of his that was quick to obey his commands. Could it be that the warlock was scared that Sherlock would fulfill the contract? That in the end he wouldn't be the victor? That had to be it. The detective knew he had been close, and the warlock must have seen that too. What was the purpose of his voice though? He knew it was supposedly payment, but there had to be some other motive. What power did his voice have over John? The prince had only heard it once, and that was when Sherlock saved him, but was that of significance? The detective wasn't sure how much of that John even remembered. No, Moriarty had to have given something else to this Ivan, something to give him the upper hand in this situation and make it impossible to fulfill Sherlock's side of the bargain. Sherlock was going to find out what that power was, for his sake and John's.

  
He staggered back up to standing, the nausea subsiding little by little. He brushed off his clothes, straightening them out, and waltzed down the stairs and into the dining room. There, Ivan and John were sitting side by side, not on opposite sides like when Sherlock had his first meal here. It was infuriating, but he knew that he'd have to keep these new found emotions in check if he was going to get to the bottom of this. He sat down across the table from John and noticed how something seemed to be missing. The prince was quiet unless spoken to, otherwise he sat at the table, slightly slumped and with his eyes glazed over. When spoken to, he rarely answered with enthusiasm unless he was talking to Ivan, then he seemed to get his usual passion back, but it only lasted for minutes at a time. Finally, breakfast was served.

  
Sherlock poked at his eggs while Ivan told wild tales about his adventures out at sea before he became shipwrecked here. All lies, the detective stabbed his egg, causing the yolk to ooze out. John sat there, almost doe-eyed, listening to the tales. He didn't even touch his food, unimportant compared to the new guest. Mike also was enamored, but at least he was eating. Sherlock wanted to comment that John should really eat something, but alas he couldn't. It was the first time he'd felt trapped because he didn't have his voice since John had first found him on the beach. He was always so accommodating and made an effort to try to understand what the detective was saying, and now he wouldn't even look at him. He tried using his fork to tap John's plate to get his attention, but all he got was a glare from Ivan for somehow interrupting. This kept going, a back and forth of Sherlock trying to vie for John's attention and never succeeding, all the while Ivan being the center of it. Sherlock couldn't take it anymore, abruptly standing up, causing his chair to screech against the floor. For the first time there was silence.

  
"What's the matter, Sherlock, sick again?" Mike asked.

  
Sherlock shook his head and looked to John, who was now finally looking at him, but with a blank stare. The prince didn't even say a word.

  
He pushed his chair back in with more force than needed, causing the glass and china on the table to rattle, as he stormed out of the room. There were so many emotions trying for dominance in his head: he was angry that John was acting this way, frustrated that he'd lost control of these stupid emotions that had somehow wormed their way into his psyche, worried what was going on with the prince, depressed with how he was being left out, even worse ashamed that he'd let something like this happen to John in the first place. How could he have been so naive to even try to beat someone as skilled as Moriarty. The warlock didn't play games; he only cheated and would end up winning in the end. He burst into the living room and plopped down at a chair, glaring at the fire as if it had the answer. He wanted to throw something, punch a wall, break a vase, anything to vent his frustrations. He kept glaring, scrunching up his face more as he tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair, hoping that he could somehow grind a rut into it. Yet, as he sat in the chair the insane amount of anger started to peter out into a simmer. He sagged into the chair, more than slightly embarrassed at his outburst. He wanted to go back into the dining room and try to explain himself, but he knew that was impossible. He opened his mouth, trying to get any sound out, but nothing came. He would never be able to apologize, not like this.

  
Hearing a door close behind him, he noticed a maid leaving Eric's room. Probably bringing him breakfast. The maid noticed him, gave a warm smile, and then left. She probably had much to do considering the size of the castle. It amazed Sherlock how discreet the waitstaff was at the palace; they always seemed to go unnoticed even in plain sight. They could be amazing replacements for his seagulls. He needed a network, what with this new "guest". He wouldn't be able to ask them to spy for him. He'd have to do some spying of his own. That would have to wait until he could figure out where their quarters were. The best option would probably be to stay near Eric. Someone would be back to check on him.

  
Quietly he opened the door to find Eric wolfing down a plate of eggs. He took a bite of toast before noticing the open door.

  
"Oh, hi, uh.... Sherlock isn't it? Mr. Stamford told me your names last night while we were playing cards." Finishing his toast, he motioned for Sherlock to come in. He sat down next to Eric as he finished his eggs. Placing his plate on the beside table, he picked up a deck of cards.i

  
"Want to play?" Eric asked, "Mr. Stamford said I could keep them and play solitaire, but honestly that game is so boring."

  
Sherlock smiled and nodded. Eric shuffled the cards, then dealt them, explaining the game they were going to play. "War" was just a game of chance where people would flip the next card in their deck, and whoever had the higher card would take both. If there was a tie, then each player would put two cards face down and place the third one up; the player with the higher card would take everything. It seemed simple enough.

  
While they both flipped cards, exchanging cards back and forth, Eric began to open up about his father. Sherlock presumed the boy saw him as someone to talk to who couldn't argue or cut him off, which the detective didn't mind. All the better to gather information at a pace Eric was comfortable with.

  
He talked more about how harsh his father's alcoholism was after is wife's death. Bottles would be scattered all over the house. Sometimes Eric would accidentally step on broken glass; after a while he just decided to pick up his dad's messes. His father would barely leave the house, but he wouldn't let Eric go either, not without a fight anyway. Eric would build elaborate lies about how he was still friends with everyone and would need to go see them. Even then Eric only got to go when his dad was too drunk to realize or care. Soon he actually grew apart from most of his friends, except for Emily.

  
He spoke quite fondly of her; sometimes stumbling over his words out of embarrassment. At one point he even accidentally swept the entire deck off of the bed when he recounted the first time he got to meet her. Sherlock promptly picked up the deck and sorted it back to how it was before the mishap, and they continued.

  
Sherlock was fascinated with what he observed in Eric: the raw emotion that he always had avoided and never learned how to cope with. He saw many correlations between how Eric talked about Emily and how he felt about John. He gripped his cards a little tighter.

  
"You and John seemed pretty chummy when I saw you last," Eric said, a grin tickling his face as he collected another two cards for his deck.

  
Right to the point, wasn't he?

  
Sherlock tried to not give any reaction, but couldn't help the heat that colored his cheeks.

  
"So, you do like him. I knew it."

  
Sherlock glared at him.

  
"Oh, so are you saying you don't?" Eric raised an eyebrow.

  
Sherlock focused on the two cards that he'd just won as he placed them at the bottom of his deck. It was continually growing smaller; luck really wasn't on his side.

  
"You guys seem like you'd be happy together..." Eric said, winning another war. "Kind of like in the fairy tales."

  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. As if he'd ever act like some princess in need of saving. John was the one that needed the rescue.

  
Just then Eric finally won the whole deck. Shuffling the cards, he asked, "Wanna play again?"

  
Sherlock shook his head, standing up and giving Eric a squeeze on the arm before going to the door.

  
Eric waved and said, "Bye, Sherlock. Come back soon!"

  
Sherlock smiled as he closed the door.

  
He made his way back to the chair, not wanting to return to the mess he left in the dining hall.He needed to keep close to Eric anyway. He paused before he sat down and surveyed the shelves of books against the wall. Most of them were fiction. Books from above were hard to come by in Atlantica, so this changed Sherlock's mood. He strode closer, silently scanning the titles. Deciding on a tale about King Arthur and His Knights of the Round Table, he sat back down in the chair, swinging his legs over one of the arm rests. He engrossed himself in the tale. He didn't want to deal with reality at the moment.

  
~~~~~

  
Sherlock wasn't sure if it was after chapter twenty or twenty five, but at some point he'd dozed off. The room was so cozy: the fire crackled, spreading it's warmth throughout the alcove; the chair was soft, sinking slightly when someone sat, or in Sherlock's case, laid on it; the dark maroon of the room and the lack of light because of the closed curtains gave the room a more evening tone. Whether it was one or all of those factors, Sherlock had jolted awake after having a nightmare about being back underwater without his gills. He gasped for air as he flailed in the chair, almost falling out of it. The book that had been resting on his chest flew to the ground. Sherlock's hands were slightly shaking as he grabbed the book and put it back in its place on the shelf.

  
Curse this human body, he thought. He'd never dozed off before and rarely had nightmares, much less ones that made him wake up so violently. He sauntered over to the window and yanked open the curtains. He saw it was still light out, most likely midday based on the shadows. Damn. He hadn't mean to sleep at all, let alone this long. Slowly a small panic begun to rise in his stomach as the images from the nightmare receded and the memories of this morning came flooding back, as well as his plan to make more contact with the waitstaff. His plan was a total waste, he'd probably missed at least one chance to try and communicate with them, or at least make good enough bonds with them to hear the rumors. It was obvious that the staff would probably gossip about some things, especially with the new guest.

  
He chided himself as he went out into the main hall, which was... quiet.

  
Almost as quiet as some of the deepest caverns in the ocean where the darkness would blind you and the cold would seep into your bones. Sherlock shivered as his echoing footsteps faded down the numerous diverging halls of the castle, growing quieter as he slowed to a stop in the center of the hall. Somehow, the room felt bigger than he'd ever realized. It felt almost like it could swallow him with its emptiness. Sherlock felt the panic further hollowing out his stomach as he began to search for John. He stepped lightly, trying to not let his footsteps make anymore noise so he wouldn't hear that ghastly echo again. He needed to find the prince and fast; he could feel whatever monster was eating at his stomach slowly climb up his esophagus. He was surprised he wasn't choking by now.

  
He silently wandered the halls, desperately searching for John, but at some points he felt that any signs of life would do. He was afraid of this knawing pain that required companionship to be satisfied. Never before had he felt the need to be around other people, but now all he wanted was to be close to John. He needed him to be by his side, fully aware eyes staring at him with the interest they had the day he saved him. He would smile and wave to any of the servants he'd see, trying to keep up the facade that nothing was wrong. He could feel himself faltering.

  
Finally he reached his room, which from being lead there the first time he had gathered was one of the last guest rooms in the hall. He wasn't sure if there were any other halls that contained more guest bedrooms, and he had no idea where John's room was. He lacked so much data, and, for one of the first times in his life, had no mental means of retrieving it. His mind felt like it was a shaking mess. He wanted to put it off as a side effect of the human body, but even he was beginning to realize that it was foolish. The real fact of the matter was in mere days he had somehow grown so much more attached to the prince than he already had been that he *needed* to be within close proximity for long periods of time. He open his door, noticing that once again his hands were shaking. He knew it was again due to panic, but why was there so much concentrated at one time? He had faced much more frightening tasks, and yet the thought that Moriarty had taken away the prince and done god knows what to him had Sherlock tremoring with anxiety.

  
He saw Mrs. Hudson standing on the bed, turning to greet him, her face immediately changing the moment she laid eyes on Sherlock. He could see her mouth moving but for some reason couldn't hear the words. All he could think about was not knowing where John was and what was happening to him, and how it was his fault. He knew he needed to calm down. His heart rate was to high and his breathing to erratic. He curled up on the bed, trying to take deep breaths so he could *think for one goddamn second*. He felt Mrs. Hudson combing his hair with her claws: a comforting mechanism she often used. Soon his breaths came through his new lungs normally, and his heart didn't feel like it was ready to jump out of his throat. He slowly sat up, feeling drained. He looked to Mrs. Hudson, a worried expression still on her face. She didn't say a word; she knew better than to try and coax information out of anyone after an episode like that. She wondered over to the bedside table in case Sherlock decided to make use of the bed. Which he did. His bones felt too heavy. He wanted the down comforter to absorb every fiber of his being so he would never have to return.

  
The closest he could get was cocooning himself inside the numerous blankets covering his bed.

  
He watched the rest of the day pass by, hearing the faraway conversations of the servants as they passed his door. One remarked how the new guest was handsome. Another mentioned how they'd never heard of where he'd come from before, but why care when someone like that comes to sweep you off your feet?

  
Occasionally someone would come by to knock on Sherlock's door. He didn't make any effort to acknowledge. At one point, one servant, a younger girl with ginger hair and a spattering of freckles all over her face and hands peaked her head in. Seeing the lump on the bed, she slunk back out the door and closed it quietly.

  
He didn't attend dinner that night. Unfortunately, that came to his disadvantage when he heard his stomach growl through the bed sheets.

  
"You really should go get some food in your system, dear..." Mrs. Hudson remarked. The whole time she stayed at her post on top of the beside table, not talking, but simply being there. She knew how to deal with many of Sherlock's moods. The usual course of action was to wait it out and let him work through whatever was spiraling around in his head. "Do you want me to get you something from the kitchen?"

  
Sherlock remembered how well Mrs. Hudson going to the kitchen went last time. He couldn't risk letting someone else he cherished get hurt. Though the sheets, Sherlock sighed. Slowly, he shed the numerous layers of blankets and got out of bed. He then gave a small shake of his head to Mrs. Hudson and headed to the door. Mrs. Hudson waved her claw as Sherlock closed the door.


	10. Last Chances and Final Moments

Sherlock mentally cursed himself again as he turned the corner to yet again not see the slightest hint of a kitchen. Just how big could a castle be that it could confuse the great Sherlock Holmes? He backtracked again to the diverging hallway and mentally ticked that way off as a possible route. He had to admit wandering through the castle was useful enough to become familiar with it, but his infernal stomach wasn't helping as it continued to complain at him. With a scowl he headed down another hallway, this one adorned with marble columns, much like the ones in the main foyer.

  
Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see a flicker of ginger. He turned on his heel and looked around, examining each column. One seemed to be having a part of a skirt peeking out from behind it.

  
Aha.

  
He lightly stepped over the column and rounded it to see who was hiding there. The person gasped, before nervously curtsying. It was the maid from before; her green eyes bright as she tried to form an explanation as to why she had been following him.  
"I--I'm sorry, master. I didn't mean to impose or follow or anything, but..." She looked down at her hands as she wrung part of the apron she wore over her grey dress. "That's not the way to the kitchen..."

  
Sherlock raised his eyebrows at that. This one was clever.

  
The maid looked back up at him, biting her lip before asking, "Shall I take you there?"

  
Sherlock smiled and nodded.

  
As if someone had suddenly flicked a switch, the girl beamed and grabbed his hand. "Fantastic! I wanted someone to try my new bread recipe anyhow!" The maid, named Christine she told him, continued to tell him about all the goings on in the castle as she led him down the winding corridors. The words just seemed to bubble out of her mouth, but it wasn't a bad thing. Her joy was infectious, and Sherlock found himself grinning once they'd finally reached the kitchen.

  
It was a huge place, with numerous counter tops for various people to use at once. There was a giant hearth for cooking, with different shelves made of stone. Only a few servants were in the kitchen at the moment. Two were washing dishes in a large basin, while the other was sweeping up the kitchen, careful to not brush too hard so the flour wouldn't burst into clouds off the stone floor.

  
"How's my bread doing, Anne?" Christine said to the girl sweeping.

  
"Not burning," Anne replied.

  
"That's not what I meant!" Christine said, giggling and playfully pushing her to the side before going to the hearth to check on the loaves. "Ah! They're perfect!" She grabbed a wooded paddle and skillfully took the loaves out of the hearth and places them on a large rack to cool.

  
"Who's this fella you've brought with you, Chrissy?" asked one of the washers, "A perspective lover? I know you know that the quickest way to a man's heart is good food."

  
"Oh, Ian, you can hush up," Christine replied, fanning the loaves with her apron. Her face was red, and Sherlock deduced it wasn't just because of the hot oven.

  
"Ian, don't you know? That's one of Prince John's guests!" said the washer next to him.

  
"Oh, pardon me for not knowing the prime gossip, unlike you Diana." Ian held his hands up, as if being accused in court. 

  
Diana smacked him with a towel before she resumed drying a pan.

  
"You must be the one Prince John brought first," Anne said, now closer and examining Sherlock herself. Sherlock looked to the side, away from her curious eyes. "I personally think you're a much better match for him than that Ivan character," she said with a huff.

  
"But isn't that Ivan a catch?" Diana said, dreamily. "If Prince John doesn't take him, I certainly will have a go next."

  
"Oh, as if a noble castaway like Ivan would take you. You're much too naggy," Ian jeered.

  
"You can think anything you want, Ian. I know how well your love life is going. Phillip told me all about it."

  
Suddenly Ian turned redder than Mrs. Hudson's shell. "He said he wouldn--"

  
"He didn't. Word just gets around here." This time Diana was wearing the smirk.

  
"You witch." Ian scowled as he dunked another pan into the soapy water, causing it to splash.

  
Diana giggled, and said, "It's a living."

  
All the while, Sherlock had perched on a stool and soaked up every word. The companionship of the servants was evident, and very valuable. If he could strike a bargain with him, he knew he could have another network, especially with Diana being a part of it.

  
"There!" Christine said triumphantly, sliding a freshly cut piece of bread Sherlock's way. "We have some fresh butter if you like." Sherlock inhaled the steam coming off the still warm bread. The sent of walnuts and fresh fruit made his mouth water. He picked up the bread and enjoyed every bite of it, the fruit and nuts complimenting each other perfectly.

  
"From the smile on you're face, I assume it's absolutely delicious." Christine said, grinning ear to ear.

  
Sherlock nodded.

  
"Haha! I knew it would work this time! Take that, Anne!"

  
"It's not my fault it takes you more than five tries to figure out a bread recipe."

  
"Practice just makes perfect!" Christine said. "Next thing you'll know, I’ll be head baker."

  
"God help us all," Ian said. The group laughed.

  
Sherlock had never really enjoyed occasions such as this. Too many people, too much talking to do. Here, though, he could just sit back and listen. It was pleasant.

  
"So, Mr. Mystery over there, Sherlock I believe? What is it about you that's got Prince John high in the clouds?" Diana asked, wiping her hands on her apron as she finished up the dishes.

  
"Are you sure it's not Ivan that's got him up there? They did go off to spend a couple days in the next town over." Anne remarked.

  
The bread in Sherlock's stomach churned. A couple days. Days. Sherlock only had a few left to get true loves kiss, and Moriarty knew that. He would have to work fast to break whatever spell John was under and get that kiss.

  
“Are you so sure? I saw the two of them the day after Mr. Sherlock arrived, and I’d never seen the Prince more lifted off his feet.” Diana looked to Sherlock them, “And then Ivan shows up, and suddenly it’s like he hadn’t met you in the first place. I’ve never seen the Prince give someone up like that so fast... He’s somewhat of a romantic, I’ve been at this castle long enough to gather that. His last heartbreak, oh, he sulked for weeks. I don’t blame him either, that last lady of his was suspicious from the start. I think he blamed himself for not seeing it sooner.” Diana rung out the rag in the basin and left it to dry on the chair she’d been sitting on. “Anyway, I feel like something just isn’t right...”

  
Sherlock thanked the gods he’d never really believed in for the first time. These servants were sharp, and that was just what he needed. He made eye contact with Diana and firmly nodded.

  
“So there is something going on! I knew it!”

  
“I dunno, you might not want to jump to conclusions that fast,” Ian said, also standing. “Maybe Ivan is just that charming.”

  
Christine shook her head as she cut more slices of bread. “No, no, I agree with Diana. I saw the two of them leaving, and I have to tell you, the look in the Prince’s eyes wasn’t affection. His eyes were so...dull. It was like there wasn’t anything in there.” She put her knife down, “Gave me the chills for sure.” She then locked eyes with Sherlock. “I want the Prince to be happy,” she said, “And I’m sure everyone else here does too. Mr. Sherlock, we saw the way Prince John was with you, and he definitely deserves that happiness. If there’s anything we can do to help, we will gladly do it.”

  
The others in the kitchen nodded in response. Sherlock was slightly taken aback at how loyal these servants were to John. He must be a fantastic ruler, but then Sherlock had figured that out after spending his first day with him. He had warmth that everyone wanted a part of, and Sherlock couldn’t risk losing it, especially to Moriarty.

  
Sherlock rummaged around in his pants pocket for the pencil and paper that Mr. Hollandaise had given him the previous day for the case. Quite a bit of it was used up already, but there was still space enough. He drew a crude version of himself, then a face appearing to be talking. He then drew an arrow from the talking face to himself. He showed it to the servants.

  
“Oh, darn, that’s right, you can’t speak,” said Christine.

  
“I’m quite good at this game!” said Anne leaning the broom against the wall. She came closer to the picture, leaning down, putting her hands on her hips, and scrunching her face. “You... want a new face?”  
Sherlock shook his head.

  
“Oh come on, Anne, I thought you said you were good at this,” said Ian, now standing to look at the drawing too.

  
“I am, I am! Just give me a second.” She stared some more, then said, “You want... us to talk to you?”

  
“We’re already talking though,” said Diana. “Do you want us to talk about something?”

  
Sherlock nodded, withdrew the picture a moment, and drew a crown. He showed it again.

  
“A crown... You mean the prince?” asked Christine.

  
“We’ve done that too,” said Ian, with a little huff.

  
“Well it has to do with us helping him and the Prince so...” Suddenly Anne seemed to get it, jumping up and clapping her hands “You want us to tell you more about the prince!”

  
Ah, she’s so close, Sherlock thought, again lamenting his drawing skills.

  
“You mean... like gossip?” asked Diana.

  
Sherlock frowned in distaste.

  
“Not gossip? Then what else is there? Spying?” said Ian, almost jokingly.

  
Sherlock’s eyes lit up and he nodded with much enthusiasm.

  
“Spy on the Prince? Well I guess we do that already....” said Anne.

  
“No, no it makes sense! If we’re going to figure out whatever is happening to Prince John, then we need all the information we can get, and Mr. Sherlock certainly can’t do that by himself,” said Diana, a grin on her face. “We’ll do it!”

  
“Yes!” Anne said, clapping some more. “We’ll tell you all we can, Mr. Sherlock. We’re going to save our prince.”

  
Sherlock nodded again, this time in thanks. He had his spy network. Now all he needed to do was wait and pray that when John and Ivan came back there would still be enough time.

  
He dearly hoped that would be the case.

  
~~~~~

  
John and Ivan didn’t end up returning until there was a mere one day left. While they were gone Sherlock feverishly tried to figure out every possible way to stop Ivan. He understood that whoever Ivan really was, they were in league with Moriarty, or had a high enough debt to pay that they had to be in league with him. More so, there was magic that had to do with his voice. It seemed to be charming John in someway. Why his voice did that, he couldn’t really understand, but that was a puzzle for another time.

  
For now the bare bones of the plan were to break get Ivan away from John as fast as possible, break the spell, and somehow with the little time they had left get a true love’s kiss. From a logical standpoint it seemed near impossible. This time though, Sherlock wasn’t going to let the logic of it bring him down. He needed to do this, for John’s sake and his.

  
When the pair returned it didn’t seem like much had changed. John still seemed empty, his eyes still “dull” as Christine had said. Only when he spoke to Ivan did he seem to get any semblance of spirit back, and, Sherlock began to realize, even then it seemed forced now.

  
“Well it’s nice to see you again, Sherlock,” said Ivan as they came through the main doors. John was at his side, their hands brushing as they walked. The detective despite himself started to scowl. “Oh, it’s a pity you missed the trip, it was wonderful, wasn’t it John?”

  
“Yes, absolutely fantastic,” John said, looking into Ivan’s eyes. He lingered there with the ghost of a smile on his face before it faded and he was empty once more. It was like he was a puppet, and it made Sherlock sick with anger.

"John, go on to the study without me. I need to have a little chit-chat with Sherlock," Ivan said, giving John's back a little pat. 

"Okay," John said, dejected.

Once John had his back turned and started ambling toward the study, Ivan tuned to Sherlock. "Walk with me," Ivan said with a little venom behind it. Putting his hands behind his back, he started walking down one of the many dark, marble hallways of the castle. 

Sherlock jogged to catch up behind Ivan. What choice did he have?

"I'm sure you figured out why I'm here, so let's just cut to the chase." Ivan glanced back, a toothy grin on his face. "Moriarty has a message."

Sherlock's feet and mind screeched to a halt. 

"As per the contract you signed, if you don't get your kiss before the time is up, a human sacrifice is required as payment." Ivan stopped too, stalking over to Sherlock. Sherlock started backing up, back hitting the cold marble wall. "I'm sure you have many arguments about the legalities of this, but that's your problem not mine." He came even closer. "It's not my fault your gambit was a failure from the start."

Sherlock's hand started sweating, despite being jammed against the cold stone.

"Now, If I were you," Ivan cornered him, barring his arm next to Sherlock's face, "I would get my last will and testament ready. Wouldn't want to let anyone else take the fall, like say..." Ivan milked out each syllable, stretching each sentence longer and longer. "Maybe your brother? Wouldn't that be a shame. The King of Atlantica wasted due to his younger brother's mistake." Ivan brought his eyes to stare right into Sherlock's. "Or your little maid, that poor little crab. Would be such a pity to see her go." Ivan examined the fingernails on his other hand.

Sherlock could feel his clammy hands start to slip against the polished wall.

"Oh, but what if Moriarty want's to hit it where it _really_  hurts?" Ivan asked placing a hand on Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock's new lungs felt like they were constricting into nothingness, choking him.

"What if we just offed your dear,  _dear_ , Prince Charming? Now that I'm sure would just tear you to pieces." Ivan gave one last smile before taking his hands away and crossing his arms. "Make these last moments count, Sherlock," Ivan said, his voice bouncing against the marble as he started to walk away. "They're going to be your last." With a final wave, Ivan turned and headed back towards the study. 

Finally, Sherlock slipped down to the floor, taking his head in his hands. 

This definitely was going to be harder. 

   
~~~~~

    
Ivan did everything in his power to make sure Sherlock couldn't even touch John. Wherever John was, Ivan wasn’t far behind and vice versa. It seemed near impossible to get the prince alone and snap him out of whatever trance he was in. That night, Sherlock decided he had to act now, or he'd lose everything. 

  
He managed to find his four confidants in the kitchen once again. Prepped with new paper and pencil, Sherlock somehow got his meager plan across. Anna and Christine would keep Ivan occupied long enough for Ian and Diana to whisk John away up to Sherlock’s room. There, he would lock him in and figure out how to lift whatever curse that urchin Moriarty had put on him. The plan was that it would be after dinner, so late that most likely Ivan would have his guard down. Sherlock made sure to stay away from the pair, always glued to each other. Whenever Ivan would pass he would put on the most defeated look he could muster. Sherlock needed to make sure he was in such a false sense of security that he would assume he’d won. Sherlock couldn’t help balling his fits or gritting his teeth whenever these encounters happened, though. It wasn’t noticeable to Ivan, but Sherlock could feel the torrent of emotions worming itself deeper into his facade.

  
Finally, the time for dinner came. It was the same usual fair: Mike and Ivan making conversation, with John interjecting when told to, and Sherlock left to poke at his food. He’d take a bite every so often, but every morsel just felt like a chore. All was bland, and was just pretense for what was to come. When dinner ended, Sherlock excused himself, and walked out of the hall fast as he could without giving anything away. As he walked down the hallway to his room, he passed Ian. They shared a knowing glance with each other, signaling it was time to take action.

  
Sherlock came into his room, closed the door, and started pacing back and forth in front of his bed. It seemed more of John had rubbed off of him than he’d already thought.

  
“Dear, I’m sure it will all go splendid. I’ll give him a good pinch if need be,” said Mrs. Hudson, resolutely at her post on the nightstand. She was completely aware of the plan, as Sherlock had shown her the paper with copious amounts of sub-par pictures and diagrams.

  
Sherlock gave her a small smile before turning his head back straight forward and continuing down the ever-deepening rut he was making in the carpet.

  
Ever time Sherlock would hear footsteps, he’d stop, anxiety starting to knot in his stomach, then the steps would pass by, and Sherlock would return to the ritual pacing. Occasionally he’d notice how sweaty his hands were, and would rub them on his pant legs.

  
Mrs. Hudson would sometimes try to calm Sherlock down, but soon gave up. She knew that once he’d get in states like these, there was no reaching him till it passed.

  
Sherlock’s mind was whirring with everything that could go wrong: Ivan would refuse to leave John’s side. John would refuse to go with Ian and Diana. Ivan would catch on to the plan and put a stop to it before it could even come to fruition. Anna and Christine wouldn’t be able to keep Ivan occupied for long enough and John wouldn’t reach his room in time. Ivan would follow Ian and Diana, and ruin the whole plan right as it was about to be successful. Once John got to the room, he wouldn’t listen to Sherlock. He would be that stone-faced, empty husk that he had been for the past days, and Sherlock wouldn’t be able to reach him. He wouldn’t be able to bring back the sparkle in John’s eyes, or the candor his voice once had. Maybe John wouldn’t even give him a response, but instead of being a husk, resolutely ignore him. All these possibilities and what if’s broiled and frothed in his brain, slowly eroding the confidence he’d had in the plan yesterday. Everything would come crashing down. He’d never get the kiss, he’d never be able to be with John, he would instead be stuck in that retched garden Moriarty kept, he’d--

  
Just then there was a quick rapping on the door.

  
Sherlock stopped dead in his rut, almost tripping in the process. He fumbled with the door’s lock, hands still sweaty, before John was pushed into the room by the two servants. The both gave reassuring smiles before darting off in different directions to ward off suspicion. Sherlock quickly shut the door and locked it, before leaning back against it, almost sagging to the floor. He already felt drained, and the worst part of the process hadn’t even started yet. He lifted his head from looking at the floor to looking at John.

  
The prince stood there, occasionally clasping and unclasping his hands at his sides, unsure of what to do. It seemed like he was lost at sea again, and Sherlock desperately hoped he could save him from drowning a second time.

  
Sherlock straightened himself and slowly walked towards John, arm outstretched. He tentatively placed his hand on John’s shoulder. John, as suspected, didn’t react. Sherlock moved to face John, hand never leaving his shoulder. Sherlock was a bit taller than John, and had to look down slightly to stare into his eyes. This time John did react, yet only slightly. He did tilt his head up to look at Sherlock.

  
Sherlock drew his mouth into a thin line, clenching his teeth in tandem. He knew that the prince’s eyes would be soulless, but looking at them in such close proximity only made it worse. His blue eyes seemed clouded over, the color literally paling in comparison to how John’s were before. Sherlock couldn’t help but cup John’s face with his hand. He suddenly felt so guilty for taking what little time he’d had with John for granted. He thought he had more time, and then would have more time after that.

He’d been so sure that this deal would be easy.

  
He’d been sure of many things.

  
He slid his hand down John’s neck and shoulders, and took his arm to lead him to the bed. They both sat down. Sherlock sagged into the mattress, resting his elbows on his knees, and cradling his head as he racked his brain for ways to bring John back. He kept trying to frame the whole situation logically. Go to his mind palace, figure out the cure, execute, and be done. But he just couldn’t. Waves of emotions instead crashed onto him, making his mind palace shake. Guilt, fear, anguish, all swirled around in his mind, liable to create a typhoon at any second. He hadn't felt this swallowed up in years. Of course he wasn’t prepared when the tears started to burn behind his eyes; his throat started to close up only to let out occasional sobs and gasps for breath. Only then did he realize not only was his palace shaking, but he was too. With trembling hands, he took fistfuls of his hair to try and steady them. Still, he couldn’t stop his body from shaking more as sobs seemed to ricochet through his insides.

  
He felt himself being pulled closer. Encircled by warmth he thought he’d never feel again. Startled, Sherlock looked up to find John hugging him. One arm holding him close, the other rubbing circles up and down on his back. His eyes were still clouded, but Sherlock felt like something had to have changed.

  
Even in such a trance, John was a caregiver at heart. Sherlock didn’t want to stop this moment. He wanted it documented, frozen in time. He wanted to preserve it in a bubble, then hide it away to return to whenever he wanted. He wanted to stay like this forever and cease to worry about anything else. His hands loosened from his hair and went to John’s wool sweater, taking handfuls of it as he tried to steady himself. Still, he hiccuped breaths, tears still streaking down his cheeks. He could taste their salt.  
John brought him closer. This time he carded through Sherlock’s hair instead of rubbing his back. Sherlock leaned his head into the crook of the prince’s neck. Sherlock wondered if this was usual behavior for humans; to be this close. He’d never seen much of it in Atlantica.

  
It felt so right.

  
The sound of the door being banged on, almost knocked off its hinges brought Sherlock out of his bliss.

  
Ivan, Sherlock’s brain quickly supplied. If he could speak, he’d probably let loose every curse in the seven seas. Outside the door, Ivan was yelling profanities, peppering in John’s name here and there to get the prince’s attention. To Sherlock’s dismay, John stood up and started walking towards the door.

  
As if on instinct, Sherlock launched his hand out and grabbed John’s wrist. John resisted, trying to pull his arm away as he tried to get to his false lover, the impostor. Sherlock knew the door was going to break down any minute. Ivan was getting frantic. Sherlock’s mind seemed to start to empty, all logic draining out of him as one thought pushed itself into the core of his psyche.

  
He had to protect John.

  
Sherlock gave a hard yank on the prince’s arm. John stumbled backwards, giving Sherlock the chance to this time hug him in his arms, and whirl him around. His back to the door, Sherlock pushed John against the wall.  
And he kissed him.

  
Another moment that Sherlock wanted to preserve for the rest of his life.

  
Another moment that Sherlock lost himself in, all his awareness centered around John’s lips against his.

  
He didn’t notice when the door finally gave away.

  
He didn’t hear Ivan’s lumbering footsteps toward them.

  
He did, however, feel the sword as it pierced through him.


	11. Endings and Epilogues

John felt like he had stepped out of a dream, and had lost time. His lips still crackled from what he vaguely remembered was a kiss. He looked up and met Sherlock’s eyes, confused. The color of Sherlock’s eyes were flickering like when he first met him, somehow changing. One of Sherlock’s arms was hugged around his waist, the other was braced against the wall. He saw the weak smile before Sherlock fell against him with a jerk. He crumpled in his arms, wincing in pain. John caught him, feeling a tell-tale warmth that he knew far too well. Sherlock’s dark shirt had a patch of blood blossoming from his lower abdomen and growing. He was breathing heavily, still trying to brace himself against John, despite barely being able to stand.

  
John looked over Sherlock’s shoulder to see a man standing there, a thin rapier in his hand coated in blood.

  
“John, it’s okay now, come to me,” the man said, opening his arms as if the bloody sword wasn’t there. "We can be together. It's over; he lost."

  
John grit his teeth, “Like hell I will.” John yelled out for guards to escort the man out. Soon two guards burst into the room and grabbed the man by the shoulders. With panic filled eyes, the man began shouting John’s name, begging for him to come back. His voice sounded familiar, but as the man got more hysterical, his voice began to distort. He was shrieking by the time the guards has hauled him out of the room and down the hall.

  
John knelt down, carefully lowering Sherlock with him. He turned him over, laying Sherlock’s head in his lap. Sherlock was feebly reaching for John, his hand shaking, red streaking his fingertips. John grabbed it, hoping to give some assurance to him. He squeezed it before letting go to quickly unbutton Sherlock’s shirt. The entry was clean, and from the looks of it the attacker didn’t twist the blade. Still, Sherlock was losing too much blood. Too much.

  
There was a different wail that came from in the room. John’s head bolted up, looking for the source. There was a pink crab with human-like features on top of Sherlock’s bed. It was crying.

  
“Sherlock!” it screamed as it scuttled down the bed, nearly slipping. It scurried up to Sherlock’s face rubbing it with a claw, “Sherlock, oh dear, oh dear!” It sobbed out. Looking up at John, it said, “We need to get to the beach, now!”

  
At first, John was dumbfounded for a split second. Then, taking Sherlock in his arms, he nodded. The crab climbed up his shoulder as John ran out to the beach. He whizzed passed servants, who blanched at the sight of the prince: a pink crab on his shoulder, carrying a man who was bleeding, the red starting to stain John's own shirt. At that point John didn’t care. The crab, Mrs. Hudson, explained the whole thing. How Sherlock was a mermaid; how he had been tricked into a deal by a warlock to get legs and to see John again; how the man that stabbed Sherlock, Ivan was his name, tried to trick John by using Sherlock’s voice. A plan obviously concocted by the warlock, Moriarty, to make sure Sherlock couldn’t keep up his end of the deal: a true love’s kiss.

  
By the time Mrs. Hudson had finished the tale, they were on the beach. John knelt down to let the crab off his shoulder. She scurried off into the water, assuring him that she would get reinforcements to help Sherlock.

  
And suddenly, they were alone again, the lapping of the ocean and Sherlock’s labored breathing the only sounds.

  
“J-John,” Sherlock rasped out, coughing.

  
“Sherlock!” John gasped, “You’ve got your voice back.”

  
“The spell.... It’s ending.” Sherlock winced. “Soon I’ll be a merman again.”

  
“Keep talking to me,” John said, grabbing his hand. “You need to stay awake for me, okay?”

  
Sherlock grimaced. “I...” He seemed to be searching for the right words. “I’m sorry...”

  
“What could you even be sorry for?” John squeezed his hand.

  
“I was... stupid.”

  
“I’m sure that’s hard to admit,” John said, not being able to suppress a weak smile.

  
Sherlock let out a breathy laugh before coughing. “It is.” He looked to the sky, up at the moon. “Moriarty targeted you. I should have seen it coming. But, I didn’t... I was too...” Again, he searched, “Involved.” Then he looked straight into John’s eyes, piercing his soul, or at least it felt like it. “You called me brilliant... When we first met.” Sherlock smiled. “You said my name was important... You made me feel important.”

  
John smiled too, rubbing circles on Sherlock’s hand with his thumb.

  
“You made me... feel things I’d never felt before. I couldn’t figure it out, but I knew I had to see you again.”

  
“I’m glad you did.” John said, “Save me, and come back, I mean.” John kissed Sherlock’s hand, tasting the blood on it, but not caring. “You, Sherlock, are the most amazing person I’ve ever met.”

  
Sherlock started to smile again, but then he cried out in pain. He started to writhe in John’s arms, Sherlock started to smile again, but then he cried out in pain. He started to writhe in John’s arms, gripping tightly to the prince’s hand. Suddenly, dark green and blue sinews began to latch onto each other on Sherlock’s legs, drawing them closer together. They wrapped around his legs, turning the once pale skin green and blue. Scales began to sprout where flesh used to be. His feet began to flatten, growing into pale sea foam colored fins. Gills tore into Sherlock’s neck, like some animal had scratched him.

  
Just as abruptly it had began, the metamorphosis suddenly stopped. The merman went limp again in John’s arms, breathing even heavier. John squeezed Sherlock’s hand as it went limp. The merman’s wound was still bleeding, now streaking down the newly grown turquoise scales. It reminded John of the numerous soldiers in hospital tents. The smell of disinfectant and alcohol choking him. He scrunched his eyes closed, trying to force the memories back. He couldn’t let the past drag him back now. He opened his eyes to find Sherlock staring into them. The irises were a blue with flecks of gold swirling about. His eyes were glazed over, pupils blown, struggling to find information. John squeezed his hand again.

  
“It’s alright.” John gave a weak smile.

  
Sherlock replied with a watery one. “I’m sure that’s an understatement... considering.”

  
“Mrs. Hudson should be back soon.”

  
“Oh, she must’ve told you, what, everything?” Sherlock lifted up his other hand, now clutching John’s hand in both of his. “I’m going to miss you.” Now he had shifted his gaze to their interlinked hands. His eyebrows scrunched together in concentration, as if he was trying to preserve the image of their hands together for safekeeping.

  
“Well, we can see each other again...” John said, sighing as he looked down to their hands, then looking back at Sherlock’s eyes. “Can't we?”

  
Sherlock’s eyes flicked back up to his. “I...” The statement died in his throat.

  
A silence overtook both of them. They knew that this might be the last time.

  
They sat there, John watching Sherlock’s chest rise and fall with each breath; Sherlock watching the waves crash onto the beach, sometimes lapping at his fins. The sounds of the ocean filled the gap the silence between them created. John found himself wanting more of this: not necessarily needing to fill every space with words. Instead being comfortable just being with someone else. He’d known he felt this way about Sherlock after the first day. Still, at that time Sherlock couldn’t speak to begin with. Yet, he still felt moments like these would happen often with him. He’d just have to hope there would be more.

  
John heard the commotion of merpeople and Mrs. Hudson rushing to the shore before he turned to look at the group. Mrs. Hudson was at the front, looking like she was a captain leading a charge. Behind her seemed to be a police force of some sort. Right behind Mrs. Hudson was a merman with graying hair cropped short. John got up and hoisted Sherlock up in his arms, careful not to aggravate the injury. He waded into the sea water, wincing at it’s icy temperature. Once John got to the group, Mrs. Hudson climbed up John’s hand to his shoulder, telling him to hand Sherlock to the gray-haired merman-- Greg was his name, she said. The prince handed Sherlock over with care, Greg taking him with the same gentleness. Once John’s arms were empty he was at a loss. He stood in the cold water, blankly staring at the force as they bandaged Sherlock quickly and started their decent back underwater.

  
“We’ll be back for a visit, I promise,” Mrs. Hudson said, tapping his cheek before climbing down his shoulder. She turned around in his hand, saying a final, “Goodbye, dear,” before she too left.

  
John clamored back onto the shore, pants soaking wet and heavy. He laid down on the beach, caring little as the sand stuck to his wet clothes. He looked up to the sky.

  
Even among all the stars, the moon seemed so lonely.

  
~~~~~

  
Sherlock woke in his bedroom days after. According to what information he could gather from his brother, who oscillated from worried to fuming at him for going to the surface, Moriarty had disappeared. From what Greg and his force observed, the man named “Ivan” had been arrested, but had also disappeared sometime later.

  
It wasn’t the ending Sherlock wanted. Somehow, he'd won, but felt like an empty victory. Moriarty would still be coming for blood, his especially. What he was most worried about was John’s well-being. He felt gutted, like the corpses he used in his old experiments. He was hollowed out, as if the emotions he thought he’d gained had, just, disappeared. What he once thought was a weakness was something he missed terribly.

  
Despite getting his voice back, he was quieter than ever. Not quibbling with his brother on small business; not talking over merfolk who came for solutions to petty problems. He barely uttered a word to even Molly, who had gushed over him when he finally woke up. One thing he did do was apologize. He didn’t know really what changed, but it somehow felt necessary. Molly giggled before accepting the apology. She stayed with him, recounting little things that happened while Sherlock was away. So-and-so did this; the seagull network brought this back. Molly had even kept tabs on his time sensitive experiments.

  
In short, she’d been amazing this whole time, but Sherlock had been too obtuse to see it.

  
Still, he couldn’t ameliorate the pit in his stomach.

  
Everyone took notice, and of all people it was his brother who decided to change things.

  
“You want to go back, don’t you?” Mycroft said at the dinner table.

  
Sherlock, who’d been poking around at the food on his plate, sorting and unsorting the food groups, looked up.

  
“Do you miss him that much?”

  
Sherlock sighed. “Terribly.”

  
Mycroft dabbed a napkin at his lip before setting it on the table. “I would hate for you to go back, you know. You could end up in some mad scientist’s lab and the truth of merpeople would be forever exposed.” He looked out one of the many openings in the dining hall. A school of fish swam by.

  
“John would protect me,” Sherlock supplied immediately.

  
“Hm.” Mycroft drummed his fingers on the table. “Would you be able to survive up there? It seems rather dull in retrospect.”  
“I’d manage.”

  
“There’s no sea creatures; no bottomless pits; I’m sure there’s plenty of murder, but I doubt it’s as creative.” He gave him a look, and Sherlock looked back, determined.

  
Mycroft gave an incredulous sigh. “Fine,” he said, taking a golden ring with a turquoise jewel off his finger and holding it out to Sherlock. “Wear this when you want to come back.”

  
Sherlock fumbled with the ring before gripping it tightly. “Are you--?”

  
“Yes, I’m serious. I’m tired of you stinking up the place with your moping.” Mycroft glared at him. “But if I get the slightest word that something has happened to you, consider that boy drowned.”

  
Sherlock was so elated he hugged his brother, much to Mycroft’s befuddlement. He strung the ring onto a necklace, careful to never lose it. He gathered up a few things in a knapsack, and gave his goodbyes. He encouraged Molly to continue his work; the guard would still need some brains without him around. Mrs. Hudson was a bit teary. “I know I said you could leave, but it's still so hard. You’re just never really prepared to stay goodbye, dear. Never.”

  
Before Sherlock left for good, Mycroft did some magic with his trident, stating that once he reached the surface he’d have legs once more. Sherlock thanked his brother one last time before propelling himself toward the surface and John’s castle as fast as the legs in his tail could carry him.

  
He broke to the surface and swam to the shore. The castle he would now call home seemed to almost sparkle in the afternoon sunlight. When he finally beached he felt his tail separate into legs. He felt his gills recede and his lungs change to always accept oxygen in the air. In, and out, he breathed before laughing. He stood up, again wobbly on his legs, but this time he knew how to use them. This time he thought ahead and in his knapsack he brought a tunic that would adequately cover him until he got human clothes.

  
He heard barking.

  
He whirled around to see John’s dog running over to him, his stubby legs almost tripping him.

  
“Gladstone! What’s gotten into you?”

  
Sherlock could feel the telltale pinpricks of tears sting his eyes.

  
“John.” He said.

  
John stopped dead in his tracks, forgetting his dog completely. His mouth hung open, his body didn’t seem to know what to do. That resolved itself pretty quickly, though, as John broke into a run and barreled toward Sherlock. He crashed into him as he squeezed Sherlock in a hug. He knocked them both to the sand.

  
Sherlock coughed as the wind he’d just gotten used to was knocked out of him. “Glad to know I’m wanted.”

  
“Of course you are, you idiot!” John said before planting a warm kiss on his lips. He laid his head down on Sherlock’s chest. The stayed like that for a while. The same comfortable silence they enjoyed before parting ways returned. John took a deep breath before saying, “Please tell me it’s actually forever this time.”

  
“Forever, this time,” Sherlock said, carding his fingers through John’s short hair.

  
“Promise?”

  
“Now that is a mystery.”

  
John playfully smacked him. “I think I might’ve enjoyed silent Sherlock better.” They both smiled at each other before John stood up and dusted himself off. “We better get you some clothes. I don’t think seaweed is in fashion anymore.” He laughed, holding out a hand to help Sherlock up.

  
Sherlock took it, the smile on his face growing.

  
They both walked to the castle, catching up on so much despite how little time had passed. Eric was doing splendid, and had already made friends with the waitstaff. He’d have to compensate Christine and her friends for their help thwarting Moriarty’s plot. Everything else in the small hamlet near the castle was also going fine. Eric still visited Mr. Hollandaise to play with his cat, of course.

  
They waltzed through the double doors of the palace together, Mike greeting them. He was ecstatic Sherlock had returned. Sherlock was whisked to his old room and changed back into his old clothes. This time, dinner had no fish whatsoever, and Mike assured Sherlock they would keep it off the menu from now on. That night he stayed in the study, playing cards with Eric on the floor, while John sat in a chair by the fire reading.

  
“So,” Eric said, before winning the hand again. “When’s the wedding?”

  
Sherlock sputtered. John almost dropped his book.

  
“What?” Eric asked, incredulous. “The maids are already taking bets.”

  
Sherlock glanced at John. “When does it end?”

  
“Oh, never. Always something to do,” John said back, smiling.

  
“Excellent.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, that's finally it folks. It's been a little over 3 years. To cut to the chase, I went to college, and lost all my free time. I'm sorry to all those who read this fic, only to find it not finished, with the possibility it never would be. I made a decision that I wouldn't post anything until the entire work was finished, so here it is. Five chapters and the end. 
> 
> Thank you to my beta, who also went to college and lost their free time. 
> 
> Thank you to those who still read this fic, even though it wasn't finished. Thank you for the kudos, the comments; I love every single one.


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